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INDIANA  WRITERS 


OF 


POEMS  AND  PROSE. 


THE  WESTERN   PRESS   ASSOCIATION,   PUBLISHERS. 
CHICAGO,    1902. 


Copyright,  1902,  by  The   Western   Press    Association. 
All    Rights    Reserved. 


PREFACE. 

It  is  with  pride  the  publishers  present  this  volume 
to  the  literary  world.  It  has  been  compiled  from 
selections  graciously  tendered  by  the  best  writers  of 
verse  and  prose  native-born  of  the  Hoosier  State. 
The  likeness  of  each  contributor  graces  the  page 
opposite  the  manuscript.  It  is  the  most  interesting, 
complete  and  worthy  work  of  the  kind  ever  pub 
lished  and  can  never  be  equalled  by  any  other  sin 
gle  State  or  country  in  the  entire  world. 

Edward   Joseph   Hamilton, 

Compiler. 

THE  WESTERN  PRESS  ASSOCIATION, 
CHICAGO. 


Their  people  are  righteously  proud  of  them,  and  they 
of  their  people- 


DEDICATORY. 


Sons  and  Daughters  of  our  Statehood, 

Gathered  in  a  fair  bouquet ; 
Dropping  sweet  thoughts  from  your  pen-points 

Like  the  bursting  buds  of  May. 

May  the  fragrance  of  these  heart-thoughts 
'Round  your  names  its  sweetness  bind, 

Until   each   a  beauteous   setting 
In  the  hearts  of  men  shall  find. 


Or  like  gems  of  richest  lustre, 
In  our  statehood's  royal  crown ; 

May  each  name  in   golden  letters, 
Be  through  ages  handed  down. 

— Laura  Galbraith  Burke. 
Anderson. 


MY  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

The  turbulent  tide  of  the  mutable  years 

May  bring  to  me  pleasure,  may  bung  to  me  tears  ; 

May  give  to  me  donor,  may  bring  to  me  shame  , 

May  lead  me  to  iniamy,  lilt  me  to  lame. 

it  matters  but  little — tnis  truth  comes  to  me, 

That  whatever  i  am,  or  wherever  i  be, 

Though   erowds  may   applaud  me,     though     mobs 

may  deride, 

One  love  still  is  constant,  whatever  betide. 
That  constancy  nothing  of  earth  may  disprove  ; 
It  beams  like  a  star  in  the  heavens  above ; 
'Tis  my  mother's  unchanging,  unchangeable  love. 

I've  seen  love's  refulgence  beam  forth  on  the  face 
With  a  glory  and  beauty  no  limner  could  trace. 
I've  seen  its  bright  halo  encircle  the  head 
And  its  aureole  flame  in  the  glory  it  shed  ; 
And  all  this  has  faded  as  fadeth  the  light 
Of  the  day  at  the  silent  approaches  of  night ; 
For  builded  on  passion,  and  selfish  in  trust, 
The  morning  found  promise,  the     evening     founit 
dust. 

My  mother's  love  beams  like  a  tremulous  star. 
Its  radiance  guides   me  by  pathways  afar. 
How  errant  I  wander,  how  erring  I  be, 
It  beams  as  unchanging  as  ever  on  me. 
A  rainbow  of  promise  it  makes  of  her  tears 
Which  arches  the  void  of  my  prodigal  years. 
There  is  hope  and  compassion  and  peace  in  its  sky  ; 
There  is  gold  at  its  foot  which  no  money  can  buy  ; 
And,  spanning  the  course  which   the  angels  have 

trod, 
It  borrows  its  hues  from  the  glory  of  God. 

A  love  so  unselfish,  so  pure  through  the  years, 
I  never  shall  meet  down  tnis  valley  of  tears. 
I  may  seek  the  wrorld  over,  but  seek  it  in  vain, 
For  a  love  like  the  love  of  my  mother  again. 
It  lives  though  the  bounds     of     the     world     may 

remove  ; 

It  beams  like  a  star  in  the  heavens  above — 
My  mother's  unchanging,  unchangeable  love. 

— Cadmus   Crabill. 
South  "Rend. 


BEULAH 

When  the  autumn  winds  are  roaring, 
And  the  autumn  rains  are  pouring 
Unceasingly  against  the  pane, 
Beating  there  a  sad  refrain ; 
When  the  fire  is  burning  dimly, 
And  the  shadows  waver  grimly 
Along  the   chamber  wall; 
Then  on  my  heart  dark  shadows  fall. 

All  my  joy  to  sorrow  turning, 
All  my  life  within  me  burning, 
While  my  throbbing  heart  and  brain 
Throb  unto  the  sad  refrain 
Of  the  shower  against  the  pane, 
For  my  darling,  sainted   Beulah 
Wrhom  I  lov'd,  and  lov'd  me  truly 
Hath  cross'd  the  Stygian  river, 
And  is  gone  from  me  forever. 

Ere  the  last  fond  word  was  spoken, 
The  thread  of  life  was  broken, 
And  in  the  misty  haunted  twilight, 
Between  the  sunlight  and  the  starlight, 
Her  spirit  took  its  flight, 
To  the  regions  which  are  light, 
To  be  seen  no  more  by  mortals. 
Yet  she  stands  within  the  portals 
Of  that  far  off  Silent  Land, 
Beckoning  with  her  slender  hand. 

—Alfred   Bryant   Miller. 
South  Bend. 


FROM  "ENOCH  WILLOUGHBY." 

(Copyright  1900  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.) 

Out  of  his  recollection  of  this  childhood,  however,  nothing  was 
stronger  than  his  love  for  that  strange  and  mysterious  father 
What  was  it  about  him  that  so  fascinated  the  boy  and  gave  him  that 
deep  love  and  profound  respect  which  for  years  hid  his  faults  and 
made  him  his  ideal  man? 

He  could,  years  afterward,  hear  the  old  horses  drive  up  before 
the  jouse  in  Hesper,  where  he  boarded  and  went  to  school  in 
winter;  he  could  hear  his  father's  voice  as  he  called  to  them  and 
stopped  them;  he  could  see  himself  rushing  out  to  meet  his 
father;  he  could  recall  a  little  shame  as  he  noticed  something 
about  V.ie  horse  or  sleigh  or  his  father's  dress  that  was  more 
rustic  perhaps  than  even  that  rustic  village  of  Hesper,  and  then 
the  rush  of  shame  at  such  a  thought;  did  not  his  father  come  for 
him  every  Friday  night  and  take  him  back  every  Monday  morn 
ing,  and  was  there  not  an  account  always  open  at  William  Price's 
store  where  lie  could  get  during  the  week  anything  he  wanted?  No 
boy  ever  had  a  better  father. 

Then  he  remembered  how,  one  evening,  in  that  good  Quaker 
family  where  he  was  boarding — Elijah  Tabor's  it  was  I  think — 
he  heard  them  talking  about  spiritualism.  They  had  forgotten 
that  he  was  around;  nice,  good  boy,  they  thought;  always  reading 
or  playing  on  an  old  melodeon;  never  any  trouble. 

Elijah  remarked,  "It  is  strange  that  people  can  be  led  aside 
by  so  singular  a  superstition;  I  doubt  if  any  really  are  deceived 
by  it;  it  is  easier  to  believe  that  they  are  all  frauds  and  deceiving 
than  that  any  human  being,  man  or  woman,  could  be  so  led  astray." 

If  they  had  noticed  they  might  have  seen  the  little  fellow  over 
in  the  corner  look  off  his  book.  He  was  evidently  paying  atten 
tion. 

Elijah  went  on:  "It  is  only  these  long  haired  people,  wild-eyed, 
and  unbalanced  in  mind,  that  take  up  such  a  belief;  no  respectable 
people  would  have  anything  to  do  with  it." 

But  this  was  too  much  for  the  boy;  his  chivalry  was  aroused: 
the  love  of  father  and  mother  was  boiling  in  his  heart;  the  Hannah 
O'Mara  nature,  of  ready  words  and  quick  emotion,  was  astir  within 
him. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"It's  a  lie,  it's  a  lie!"  he  cried,  and  burst  out  sobbing. 

Then  he  threw  down  his  book,  got  his  hat  and  coat,  and  was 
putting  them  on  when  good  Sarah  Tabor,  who  had  been  like  a 
mother  or  a  kind  aunt  to  her  little  boarder,  went  to  him  and  said 
in  her  mildest  and  gentlest  voice:  "James,  thee  mustn't  take  things 
so  to  heart;  nobody  meant  thy  father  or  mother;  nobody  knew  of 
them." 

The  boy  was  sobbing  and  hysterical. 

"Elijah  will  tell  thee  himself  he  did  not  mean  thy  father,"  she 
continued  soothingly.  Then  seeing  he  was  about  to  go  out,  she 
asked:  "Where  is  thee  going,  James?" 

"I'm  going  home,"  the  boy  replied;   "I  won't  stay  here." 

"But  thee  cannot  go  home  this  cold  night  all  that  distance," 
the  good  woman  said;  "1  cannot  allow  thee  to;  thee  is  placed  in 
m  charge  and  might  get  lost  and  perish  in  the  snow."  So  with 
hex  mild  voice  and  her  calm  reasoning  she  pacified  him;  took  his 
coat  from  him,  and  got  him  to  go  off  to  his  room. 

They  they  talked  about  the  incident,  those  dear  good  Friends; 
they  said  how  careful  one  must  be  of  what  enters  into  the  ear  of 
childhood;  they  spoke  of  how  easily  the  little  emotions  are  stirred, 
and  how  hard  it  is  to  calm  them;  and  of  how  filial  love  is  and  per 
naps  should  be  stronger  than  all  belief. 

— James  Alexander  Wickersham. 
Terre  Haute. 


PROGRESS. 

I  have  described  to  you  the  wondrous  progress  of  the 
countries  bordering  on  the  Pacific.  We  owe  it  to  our 
country,  and  to  our  flag,  that  with  these  benefactions 
of  trade  and  commerce  spiritual,  mental  and  moral 
improvement  should  go. 

By  rapid  and  effective  progress  the  ground,  which 
for  many  a  year  lay  fallow,  has  been  prepared  for  the 
sowing  of  the  seed,  and  the  Christian  societies  in  our 
midst  are  to  do  this  work. 

All  science,  all  art,  all  diplomacy,  have  prepared  for 
them  the  arena  of  a  conquest  which  will  be  greater 
than  that  of  arms,  or  of  commerce. 

The  telegraph  which  belts  the  world,  the  wireless 
pulsations  which  beat  the  air,  the  cable  which  under 
lies  every  sea,  the  railroads  which  circumvent  the 
earth,  the  printing  presses  which  multiply  their  issues 
day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  the  throbbing  steam 
ships  whose  keels  vex  every  ocean,  the  stately  banks, 
the  schools  and  colleges,  the  warehouses,  the  manufac 
tories  are  all  only  the  precursors  of  the  final  result — 
the  conversion  of  the  world  to  Christianity ! 

— Charles  Denby. 
Evansville. 


DE  WITCHIN'  1IOUAHS. 

When  de  dusky  gawd  ob  da'kness  fol's  his  mantle  o'er 

de  Ian/ 
An'  de  mystic  voices  whispah  froo  de  silence  deep  an' 

gran', 
Dar  am  choristers   nocturnal   chantin'   requiem  to   de 

day, 
An'  de  birds  ob  ebil-omen  hovah  low  alon'  de  way. 

LiT  katydids  am  'sputin'  'mongst  de  fol'age  ovahhead. 
An'  de  rivah  am  a-moanin'  kin'  ob  skeery-like  an'  sad  ; 
De  moon,  a-sinkin'  slowly  down  1)ehin'  de  sicjhin'  trees, 
Sen's  a  kin'  ob  glow  unearthly  froo  de  leafy  canopies. 

In  de  fragran',  dew-drenched  medders  matchless,  nod- 
din1  blossoms  fa'r 

\  ent  de  sweet  intoxication  ob  dar  fragrance  on  de  a'r : 

'Way  off  yondah  on  de  watah  dar's  a  steamboat  puffin' 
pas' 

Wif  heh  lights  a-blinkin'  kin'ly  an'  heh  paddles  beatin' 
fas'. 

Frum  his  den  up  in  de  hillside  sly  ol'  Reyna'cTs  slippin' 

out, 
Maybe   ovah    in    de    marshes   Jack-o'-lanthn's   bobbin' 

'bout ; 
Frum  a  treetop  in   de  hollah  hoots  an  owl  up  at  de 

moon, 
Till  de  heralds  ob  de  mawnin'  come  a-peerin'  froo  de 

gloom. 

In  de  peaceful,  witchin'  houahs  'twixt  de  midnight  an' 

de  dawn, 
Free  frum  worldly  strife  an'  worry  yo's  a-restin'  till 

de  mawn, 

Fo'  dey  am  de  witchin'  houahs  edgin'  on  anothah  Ian', 
When  de  voices  frum  de  da'kness  mek  a  chorus  deep 

an'  gran'. 

—David  Abbott  Piatt. 
Lawrenceburg. 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  RESURRECTION. 


The  springtide  speaks  of  Christ 

And  His  dear  love, 

And  tenderly  commemorates 

His  resurrection  hour, 

When  with  the  Law  of  Life, 

He  rent  in  twain  the  veil  of  death, 

And  through  the  rift  there  opened  to  the  gaze 

Of  fainting,  faltering  man, 

The  morning  beams  of  immortality. 

On  every  hand  the  bursting  buds 

Fortell  earth's  resurrection  hour, 

When  all  the  world  shall  blossom  as  the  rose, 

Reflect  the  Law  of  Love, 

And  once  again  enact  the  miracle  of  life. 

E'en  thus 

The  endless  springtide  in  the  heart  of  Christ 

Shall  e'er  unfold  itself  to  man, 

And  he  shall  know  himself 

God's  deathless,   pure   and  perfect  child; 

His  joyful  heart 

Shall  vjbrate  with  the  universe  of  Love, 

And  all  the  sons  of   God 

Shall  join  the  morning  stars  in  song. 

William  Bradford  Dickson. 
Ft  Wayne. 


MEMORY'S  BANQUET. 

i  am  banqueting  to-night — 

Not  with  wassail  and  with  wine, 
Not  with  eating  and  with  drinking, 

At  a  bacchanalian  shrine  ; 
Eor  in  my  lonely  chamber 

Where  the  shadows  and  the  light 
Are  quaintly  crossed  and  checkered- 
There  I'm  banqueting  to-night. 

In  the  hush  and  in  the  stillness 

Of  the  quiet  midnight  hour, 
I  said  to  memory,  "Bring  me 

The  best  you  have  in  store  ;" 
And  the  feast  was  spread  before  me 

And  the  present  took  her  flight, 
While  the  past  and  I  made  merry 

With  our  banqueting  to-night. 

All   sorrows  were  forbidden, 

No  grief  allowed  to  share  ; 
Ingratitude  and  broken  faith 

Were  not  permitted  there ; 
And  hate  and  haters  were  shut  out 

And  driven  from  my  sight, 
For  memory  had  her  orders 

For   the    banqueting   to-night. 

All  sunshine  hope  had  promised 

And  the  joys  that  lasted  long — 
All  the  love  that  filled  my  soul 

With  happiness  and  song, 
Sat  at  the  board  and  cheered  me, 

Making  life  a  great  delight, 
As  I  drank  the  cup  of  memory 

In  my  banqueting  to-night. 

And   the   comfort   and   the   kindness 

That  loving  hearts  have  given, 
Making  life  to  me  the  prelude 

Of  the  higher  joys  of  heaven  ; 
The  rich  old  wine,  the  vintage 

Of  the  years  that  took  their  flight, 
But  left  behind  their  sweetness 

On  which  I  banquet  here  to-night. 

-Will  Cumback. 
Greensburg. 


GOD'S  HANDIWORK. 

i. 
THE  NEW-BORN  BABE. 

Is  this  a  winter  night,  he  is  so  warm ! 
His  little  body  cuddled  close  to  thee ; 
Struck  soft  against  thy  throbbing  heart,  his   knee, 
Crushed  sweet  upon  thy  loving  lips,  his  arm. 

He  has  been  here  so  short  a  while,  his  form 
Is  scarcely   molded  to  thy  breast  yet  see, 
He  seeks  thee  with  his  mouth — what  ecstasy ! 
Ah,  God  !  no  breath  of  earth  should  do  him  harm  ! 

Life  of  that  life  which  has  enthralled  thy  own, — 
God's  blessing  born   in  living  flesh  and  blood, 
Love's  holy  gift  to  yearning  motherhood, — 

Thus  he  is  doubly  thine.     He  shall  atone 

The  passions  of  life's  hurried  hour,  and  raise 
Thy    new-found   hopes   toward   Heaven's   hallowed 
days. 

ii. 
THE  EMPTY  ROOM. 

The  room  is  empty  now  which  once  was  thrilled 
With  her  quick  presence  dominating  there ; 
It  has  grown  mute  and  lone  beyond  repair, 
Since  sound  of  her  and  movement  have  been  stilled. 

A  sense  of  need  that  daily  contact  chilled, 
Reveals  itself,  and  much  we  miss  her  where 
Her  weakness  was  our  customary  care, — 
With  what  we  do  for  others  life  is  rilled ! 

'Tis  when  the  old  are  dead  we  comprehend, 
Their  generation  links  our  own  to   God, 

And  with   a  half  unconscious  upward  trend, 
We  follow  in  the  broadest  path  they  trod  ; 

The  room  is  empty  but  remembrance  stays 

To  claim  a  kindred  thought  and  shape  our  ways. 

— Rosalie  Isabel   Stewart. 
Evansville. 


THANKSGIVING  THOUGHTS. 

Upon  the  broad  untraveled  deep  that  rolled, 

In  dark  December's  bleak  and  blustering  cold, 

Its  icy  billows  on  old  Plymouth's  shore, 

A  cheering  voice,  soft  blending  with  the  roar 

Of  wind  and  wave,  made  soothing  harmony  : 

And  most  we  honor  of  that  noble  band, 

The   Pilgrim   mothers  of  our  native   land. 

Upon  the  rugged  frontier,  where  by  night, 

The  hungry  barking  wolf  put  sleep  to  flight, 

And  all  the  day,  cruel  and  pitiless, 

The  savage  filled  the  lonely  wilderness 

With  untold  terror,  there  her  daring  heart 

Took  in  the  peril  and  the  fear  its  part : 

She  there  the  struggling  woodman  stood  beside, 

Or  nobly  o'er  his  mangled  body  died, 

Who  had  the  strength,  all  other  strength  above, 

The  wondrous  power  to  suffer  and  to  love; 

And    thus    her    queenly    "lieauty    masters    the    most 

strong," 
And  lives  in  warrior's  deeds  and  poet's  song. 

—May  Warthin  Dunn. 
Indianapolis. 


EXTRACT    FROM   THE    OPEN    MIND. 

There  is  a  single  word,  constant  loyalty  to  which  would  keep  one's 
mind  always  open.  It  is  The  Infinite.  The  very  word  "infinite" 
denies  finality.  Asserting  the  impossibility  of  finality,  it  commands 
investigation,  promises  discovery,  suggests  progress.  Th-e  mind  in 
each  of  us  is  the  mediator  between  our  physical  and  spiritual  natures, 
as  the  mind  of  humanity  is  the  mediator  between  the  physical  and 
the  spiritual  world. 

"The  open  mind"  is  no  less  the  condition  of  physical  than  of 
spiritual  progress.  Of  all  students  of  physical  science  the  most 
open  minded  have  been  astronomers.  The  reason  for  this  is  doubt 
less  found  in  the  fact  that  they  are  obliged  to  move  through  an  open 
sea  of  undetermined  space  to  reach  the  fields  of  their  observations,  to 
touch  the  objects  of  their  contemplation.  Every  advance  in  physical 
knowledge  has  been  made  in  obedience  to  some  one's  open  mind. 
There  are  instances  on  record  of  discoveries  that  have  been  made  in 
spite  of  intention  by  men  who,  having  accepted  finalities,  set  them 
selves  to  prove  that  their  finalities  were  final;  and  who  in  the  process 
of  attempted  proof  have  felt  the  finality  giving  way  under  the  pres 
sure  of  their  own  efforts,  and  have  experienced  a  fall  into  the  un 
known,  which  they  yet  know  to  be  knowable  by  the  same  methods  as 


those  by  which  they  had  previously  known  had  become  knowable. 

No  knowledge  relating  to  physical  fact  could  ever  &eem  more 
certain  to  its  possessor  than  that  the  earth  is  flat  and  that  the 
great  waters  are  made  to  divide  the  lands  and  to  separate  peoples; 
but  the  dullest  schoolboy  today  knows  that  the  earth  is  not  iiat  and 
that  the  great  waters  connect  instead  of  separate.  No  physical 
fact  could  be  more  certainly  known  by  the  closed  mind  than  that 
between  the  grain  of  sand  and  the  ant  that  constructs  its  well 
ordered  city  from  the  sand  grains  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed;  and 
that  between  the  ant,  building  and  guarding  its  walled-in  commun 
ity,  and  Napoleon  building  an  empire  there  is  a  greater  gulf  more 
firmly  fixed.  But  a  single  word  which  we  have  all  gotten  used  to 
has  shown  that  between  the  grains  of  sand  and  the  ant  building 
thereon,  between  the'  ant  and  the  man,  who  by  a  single  footstep  may 
ruin  a  thronged  city  of  ants,  there  is  no  fixed  boundary  line;  but 
only  a  continuous  thread  of  connection  and  relationship. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  most  good  folks  trembled  at  the 
utterance  of  the  potent  word  "evolution,"  finding  in  it  a  threat 
of  revolution  against  high  heaven,  and  an  assertion  of  infidelity,  if 
not  indeed  of  atheism.  The  man  who  discovered  the  law  of  evolu 
tion  which  relates  all  things  to  all  other  things,  and  wno  gave  us 
this  word,  by  virtue  of  the  open  mind  saw  what  he  saw.  All  of  the 
collisions  in  which  humanity  has  received  that  series  of  disturbing 
jolts  apparently  indispensable  to  its  progress  have  been  occasioned 
by  the  meeting  of  a  closed  mind  with  a  new  fact,  with  a  hitherto 
undiscovered  law  or  with  a  hitherto  unnamed  force.  General  as  is 
admiration  for  an  open  mind,  for  the  most  part,  the  minds  that  have 
avowed  themselves  to  be  open,  to  be  conscious  that  they  are  unfilled; 
to  be  waiting  for  more  to  come;  have  been  the  objects  of  jeering 
comment  by  the  majority. 

Tesla  in  his  isolated  tower  announcing  his  conviction  that  con 
scious  and  intelligent  interplanetary  communication  is  but  a  ques 
tion  of  time,  is  only  more,  but  not  differently,  jeered  at  from  his 
predecessors,  Morse,  Field,  Galvani  and  Volta  at  their  respective 
stages  of  work  with  the  same  element.  They  each  in  turn  have 
expressed  views  no  more  anathema  to  his  generation  than  was 
Columbus's  doctrine  of  the  sphericity  of  the  earth  to  his.  The 
open  mind  in  each  case  was  the  indispensable  condition  of  all  that 
its  possessor  did.  It  is  the  indispensable  condition  of  all  that  shall 
be  done  hereafter. 

Party  tenets  and  creeds  which  are  accepted  as  finalities  are  the 
fetters  most  difficult  for  the  human  mind  to  break.  Next  to  the  pride 
of  creed  the  arrogance  of  nationality  is  a  lock  on  the  door  of  the 
mind.  ,  The  arrogance  of  nationality,  in  the  first  instance,  is  indi 
vidual  selfishness  and  individual  vanity  expanded  and  multiplied; 
in  the  second  instance,  it  is  the  result  of  tuition  in  an  unwarranta 
ble  patriotism.  Probably  few  human  beings  have  ever  been  so 
blinded  to  their  own  defects  and  so  wanting  in  a  desire  to  improve 
that  they  really  think  themselves  superior  in  all  regards  to  their 
fellows.  A  smaller  number  still  of  individuals  would 
find  it  possible  to  rise  in  any  company  and  de 
clare  their  superiority  to  the  others  present;  boldly  saying 
that  their  minds  are  keener,  their  hearts  larger,  their  intelligence 
more  tutored,  their  powers  better  trained,  their  skill  more  practiced, 
their  wealth  greater,  than  the  corresponding  qualities  and  posses 
sions  of  their  friends  present.  Yet  what  we  do  not  permit  to  an 
individual  we  inculcate  as  a  virtue  in  a  people,  and  the  insufferable 
arrogance  that  results  from  this  tuition  we  christen  patriotism  and 
put  it  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  civic  virtues. 

The  human  mind  as  a  whole  must  be  the  reflection  of  God's 
mind.  The  wisdom,  the  goodness,  the  mercifulness,  the  love,  the 
knowledge  which  are  God's  qualities  are  found  in  the  mind  of 
humanity  as  a  whole,  but  each  separate  nation  is  but  a  single  facet 
of  that  Infinite  Mind,  reflecting  only  one,  the  dominating  mental  atti 
tude,  and  only  by  being  open  and  accessible  to  all  that  is  reflected 
from  the  other  facets,  can  a  national  consciousness  pass  out  of  its 
limitations  into  the  possession  of  the  whole;  into  the  consciousness 
of  Humanity. 

—May    Wright    Sewall. 
Indianapolis. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MOTHER. 


Our  mother  is  an  angel  now, 
Her  spirt's  flown  to  Heaven, 

The  clearest  gift  of  all,  I  trow, 
That's  e'er  to  mortal  given. 

Three  score  and  ten  years  she'd  seen, 
Years  fraught  with  pain  and  care, 

But  she  is  free  from  them,  I  ween, 
In  that  bright  home  o'er  there. 

We  laid  her  body  in  the  grave, 
The  grave  so  dark  and  cold ; 

The  soul  returned  to  Him  who  gave — 
The  body  turns  to  mould. 

Her  suff  rings  she  did  meekly  bear, 

Nor  murmured  at  her  lot, 
The  thought  oft  brings  the  rising  tear — 
She  can  not  be  forgot. 


Dear  mcther,  we'll  remember  thee, 
Although  thy  voice  is  stilled  ; 

You've  sa;ied  across  the  dark,  dark  sea 
Because  the  Lord  so  willed. 

And  may  Jehovah  guide  our  bark 

Across  life's  stormy  sea, 
And  bring  us  safely  thro'  the  dark, 

Dear  mother,  unto  thee. 

David  Huffman  Tipton. 
Coal  Citv 


PLATC. 


Without  a  guide,  above  the  wandering  fires 
Of  wisdom  sought  by  those  who  could  not  find, 

He  paled  the  flaming  of  the  world's  desires 
With  one  serenely  clear,  effulgent  mind. 


And   like  the  moon  that  rules  the   restless  sea, 
He  drew  all  tides  of  learning  toward  his  feet, 

And  saw  domains  of  thought  that  yet  should  be- 
Measured  the  universe  and  found  it  meet. 

— Minnetta  Theodora  Taylor. 
Greencastle. 


THE  INDIANA  CLUB  OF  CHICAGO. 

The  distinguishing  characteristic  of  a  Hoosier  is  his  intense 
admiration  for  the  educational  system  of  his  state.  Well  might  he 
be  proud,  for  in  this  respect  Indiana  stands  as  a  model.  The 
history  of  each  educational  institution  is  replete  with  examples 
of  heroism  and  self  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  their  many  faithful 
friends.  The  graduates  and  ex-students  of  the  Indiana  colleges, 
appear  today  as  the  heir  of  all  these  efforts,  and  can  well  hesitate, 
and  ask  the  question,  What  can  we  do  to  pay  the  debt  of  gratitude 
we  owe  the  past? 

The  answer  to  this  vital  question  came  in  a  manner  most  unex 
pected.  The  president  of  that  conservative  institution,  known  as 
the  bulwark  of  Catholicism,  urged,  in  a  recent  address  delivered 
before  the  Indiana  Club,  of  Chicago,  that  a  more  hearty  sympathy 
exist  among  the  educational  institutions  of  the  state.  Judge  Robert 
S.  Taylor,  of  Fort  Wayne,  says,  "I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears, 
when  I  heard  Father  Morrissey  tell  his  Protestant  contemporaries 
that  the  victories  of  the  past  had  been  won  too  much  by  individual 
effort;  that  greater  victories  could  be  accomplished  in  the  future  if 
all  the  institutions  of  the  state  would  more  frequently  cooperate 
with  one  another." 

The  object  is  the  key  note  of  the  Indiana  Club  of  Chicago.  Let 
us  go  forth  to  the  accomplishment  of  our  duty  as  brave  plumed 
knights  of  old.  Let  honor  be  our  watchword,  the  sword  of  truth 
our  protector.  Know  thy  work  and  do  it,  and  upon  the  horizon  of 
our  state  must  and  will  dawn  a  new  era,  scattering  its  rays 
of  blessing  upon  all  mankind  and  uplifting  to  greater  perfection  the 
educational  system  of  Indiana. 

To  accomplish  such  results  requires  a  permanent  organization 
among  the  graduates  of  each  Indiana  college.  Let  us  drink  then  to 
that  sentiment  which  makes  these  organizations  possible.  That 
sentiment,  loyalty  of  the  college  student  to  his  professor,  binds  us 
together  with  cords  of  silver  and  gold.  Let  us  drink  to  this  senti 
ment,  which  seems  should  be  a  graduate's  most  precious  possession. 
Doubtless  each  one  bears  upon  his  character  the  distinguished 
mark  of  some  great  teacher.  Doubtless  each  one  cherishes  the 
memory  of  some  distinct  professor  who  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  impress  upon  the  lives  of  his  students  those  just  principles 
of  success:  teachers  who,  when  necessary,  were  willing  to  make 
sacrifices  for  their  pupils;  teachers  whose  patient  labors  in  life 
too  often  resemble  the  flowers  of  the  forest,  whose  fragrance  is 
lost  to  heedless  passers  by. 

"Honor    and    reverence,    and    the    good    repute 
Which  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  you,  the  living  we  salute." 

God  grant  that  this  sentiment,  loyalty  of  the  college  student  to  his 
professor,  will  ever  bind  the  members  of  this  organization  to  "who 
in  the  earlier  days  led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's 
maze."  — Charles  Hugh  Leech. 

Crawfordsville. 


"I'M  IN  A  BOOK  AT  LAST." 

I'm  asked  for  "forty  lines  of  Verse, 

or 

Eight   hundred  words  of  Prose." 
Now  which  the  reader'd  find  the  worse, 
I'm  sure  nobody  knows. 
For  all  the  rhymes  I've  ever  writ 
Were  voted  dull  and     flat 
And   not  a  solitary  skit 
Escaped  the  Office  Cat! 
And  so  it  is  that  years  gone  by 
I    dropped    the    poet   biz 
And  swore  I  ne'er  again  would  try 
To  be  what  Riley   is. 
To  Prose  I  turned  my  weary  pen 
And  wrote  it  by  the  yard. 
I  wrote  of  Politics  and  Men, 
Of  Principles — and   Lard; 
I  wrote  of  Tariffs  and  of  Trusts; 
Of   Frauds   and   of   Reform; 
I  wrote  of  Bankruptcies  and  '"Busts" 
Of  Panics  and  of  Storm. 
I  wrote  about  the   currency; 
Of  Gold  and   Silver  too; 

And  sometimes   just  a  word   of  the 
Vile  Opposition   Crew; 

I  wrote  about  the   Pugilists, 
Of  Finance  and  the  Banks; 

And  then  of  Prohibitionists 

And   sometimes    of  the   Cranks; 

I  wrote  of  Cleveland  and  of  Blaine, 

Of  Roosevelt  and  Hay 

I  wrote  of  Kansas  and  of  Maine; 

I   wrote   of  William   ,T., 

I  wrote  of  Statesmen  wise  and  great, 

Of  Politicians   small; 

Perhaps  I  wrote  some  Billingsgate 

(I  can't  remember  all.) 

But  all  was  written  for  the  day. 

And  ere  the  day  was  done, 

It  found  its  straight  and  certain  way 

Into  oblivion. 

And  thus,  for  more  than  thirty  years 

I've  scribbled  hard  and  fast. 

And  now,  with  Poets  and  with  Seers 

I'm  in  a  Book  at  last! 

— Samuel  Edwards  Morss. 
Indianapolis. 


TO  BE  AN  AMERICAN  CITIZEN. 

The  school  boy  of  to-day  is  wiser  than  the  venerable  philosophers 
who  studied  in  the  groves  of  Academus. 

The  magic  of  the  laboratory  discloses  elements  and  combinations 
undreamed  of  by  the  fathers  of  chemistry. 

To  be  an  American  citizen  to-day  means  more  than  ever  before, 
it  means  greater  opportunity  and  enlarged  responsibility.  Each 
year  finds  us  camped  upon  new  heights  in  our  onward  march. 

We  look  upon  our  country  grown  great  and  strong.  We  compare 
it  with  others  and  rejoice  at  the  comparison. 

We  take  pride  in  our  territory  which  spans  the  continent,  which 
lies  within  the  Arctic  circle,  and  in  the  distant  seas. 

We  point  to  our  rich  fields,  our  vast  forests  and  to  the  exhaust- 
less  treasures  of  the  earth:  to  our  splendid  cities  and  to  our  far- 
reaching  highways  of  commerce;  to  our  enormous  trade  statistics, 
to  our  invincible  fleets.  But  these,  all  these,  are  not  onr  chief 
glory.  We  find  our  most  cherished  rational  achievement  in  the 
virtue  and  intelligence  and  in  the  all-pervading  charity  of  our 
people.  The  rich  manifestations  of  our  commercial  power,  our 
military  and  naval  strength,  great  and  splendid  as  they  are,  are  not 
to  be  counted  when  compared  with  the  moral  and  intellectual 
grandeur  of  our  people. 

There  has  been  some  suggestion  that  the  American  people  are 
given  over  to  commercialism;  that  they  are  possessed  of  the  mater 
ialistic  spirit,  and  take  too  little  notice  of  the  development  of  those 
finer  and  gentler  qualities  which  are  at  once  the  flower  and  fruit 
oi  our  civilization.  We  find  the  complete  denial  of  this  suggestion 
in  our  expanding  common  school  system,  in  the  development  of 
our  colleges  and  universities,  in  the  countless  charities  and  in  the 
increasing  number  of  those  who  are  dedicating  themselves  to  the 
sacred  work  of  the  church. 

The  pulpit  was  never  filled  by  abler  nor  better  men — men  more 
thoroughly  dedicated  to  their  high  and  holy  calling. 

The  lecture  room  was  never  the  source  of  more  wholesome  in 
fluences  than  it  is  to-day. 

There  is  on  every  hand,  in  every  city,  village  and  hamlet,  a 
generous  rivalry  among  men  and  women  to  promote  some  charity 
or  some  work  which  shall  tend  to  uplift  the  vicious,  the  ignorant, 
and  the  unfortunate. 

Those  who  accumulate  wealth  stand  disgraced  and  dishonored 
if  they  do  not  use  it  for  the  benefit  of  others. 

Stand  fast  for  the  maintenance  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  for 
the  preservation  of  these  two  great  fundamental  doctrines  for  which 
our  forefathers  contended  with  titanic  power. 

Promote  civic  .righteousness;  do  not  avoid  the  caucus,  fearing  it 
will  contaminate,  but  attend  it  to  the  end  that  it  may  not  con 
taminate  the  state.  In  the  ballot  box  our  liberties  are  compounded. 
See  to  it  that  it  gives  true  expression  of  the  public  will.  Preserve 
it  from  pollution;  protect  it  and  defend  it  as  you  would  preserve 
the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  for  it  has  been  purchased  by  the  priceless 
blood  of  countless  heroes  upon  the  battlefields  of  the  republic. 

— Charles  Warren  Fairbanks. 
Indianapolis. 


LIFE  ETERNAL. 

While  wand'ring  in  this  border  land, 
We  strive  in  vain  to  understand 
The  mystic  realm  whose  rosy  glow 
Lights  with  its  life  all  here  below. 

There's  not  a  crest  in  all  life's  ocean, 
There's  not  a  wave  in  all  this  motion, 
But  in  its  struggle  to  be  free, 
Each  sings  eternal  life  of  Thee. 


This  border-land  is  but  one  shore 
Of  the  boundless   forever  more, 
And  every  noble  deed  or  act 
Multiple  of  some   eternal  fact. 


And  they  who  bend  the  willing  ear, 
The  voice  of  angels  clearly  hear, 
Who  freely  fly  across  the  line 
Between  the  human  and  divine. 


Then  health  and  hope  and  life  unending 
Are  'neath  the  skies  now  o'er  us  bending, 
Not  distant  realm  which  far  off  lies, 
But  in  our  hearts,  the  heaven  we  prize. 

— Luther  Chapin  Abbott. 
Richmond. 


REDEMPTION. 

Oh  mother  Earth,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
Made  for  the  tread  of  angels'  feet, 

By  man  defiled. 

The  time  has  come  for  thy  release 
Through   Jesus    Christ   the    Prince   of   Peace 

From  passions  wild. 

The  greed  of  man  has  kept  thee  bound, 
But  now  we  hear  a  joyful  sound, 

Men  learn  to  love. 
The  fatherhood  of  God  we  hear, 
And  brotherhood  is  growing  clear 

Like  that  above. 

God   meant   that   earth   should   be   so   bright 
That  every  soul  should  see  the  light 

And  find  repose. 

He  taught  us  how  to  make  it  so 
Through  Jesus  Christ  long  years  ago, 

As   scripture   shows. 

The  gospel  makes  the  way  so  clear 
That  death  and  hell  will  disappear 

When  we  get  right. 
No  curse  upon  us  in  that  day 
When  we  walk  in  the  gospel  way, 

With  saints  in  light. 

The  love  of  God  and  love  of  man 
Makes  clear  to  us  a  perfect  plan. 

Let  love  increase. 

The  greatest  thing  on  earth  we  hear, 
Seek"  love  that  glory  may  appear, 
And  sorrow  cease. 

— Mary  Frame  Selby. 
Richmond. 


DANCE  Or  THE  DEWROPS. 

"Oho!"  said  a  quaint  little  drop  of  dew, 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  dance." 
So  out  thro'  the  summer  night  he  flew 
And  gathered  the  drops  from  the  starry  blue 

The  jollity  to  enhance. 
"Come,  hurry  along,"  one  bright  drop  said, 

"I'm  certain  the  train  is  due." 
So,  taking  the  Moonbeam  line,  they  sped 
Aclown  its  silvery  track  that  led 

Where  rosy  gardens  grew. 
They  danced  with  the  daisy  that  drooped  her  head 

From  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun, 
And  kissed  the  pinks  in  the  flower  bed, 
And  pressed  the  rose  till  she  blushed  right  red, 

And   the   hollyhocks,   everyone. 
The  pansy  looked  with  a  sweet  surprise 

When  they  stroked  her  velvet  dress, 
And  bathed  her  in  purple  and  golden  dyes, 
And  the   poppy  opened   her  sleepy   eyes 

When  she  felt  their  soft  caress. 
They  stopped  where  the  little  rillet  laughed 

Neath    the   honeysuckle   vine, 
And  pilfered  sweets,  as  they  gaily  quaffed 
To  the  very  dregs  the  fragrant  draught 

From   the  breath  of  the  jasamine. 
When  morning  peeped  thro'  the  eastern  skies 

And  fanned,  with  his  rose-hued  wings, 
The  drowsy  earth,  a  glad   surprise 
Looked  out  from  the  depths  of  his  great  bright  eyes 

For  he  saw  the  prettiest  things. 
A-dance  o'er  hill  and  a-dance  o'er  dell, 

A-dance  o'er  shine  and  shade — 
The  dewdrops'  footsteps  softly  fell— 
How*soft,  not  a  soul  that  lives  can  tell. 

In  opal  and  pearl  arrayed. 
They  danced  o'er  gardens  afar  and  nigh, 

They   danced   o'er  forests   old ; 
But  when  he  advanced,  these  elfins  shy 
Went  sailing  to  the  blue,  blue  sky 

In  a  sunlit  train  of  gold. 

— Esther  Nelson  Karn. 
vFt.  Wayne. 


OLD  MONROE. 

I'm  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe, 
And  as  free  as  any  zephyr  winds  that  blow 

Over  hill-top  or  thro'  glen, 

Over  morass,  bog  or  fen ; 
I'm  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe. 

I'm  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe ; 
With  its  hills  and  vales  in  summer  beauties  glow 

With  the  music  of  the  bird, 

Just  as  sweet  as  ever  heard 
By  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe. 

I'm  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe ; 

'Tis  the   fairest  spot,  I   care   not  where  you   go ; 

'Tis  the  fairest  in  the  state, 

Tho'   there's  others  you   relate ; 
You  can  never  beat  the  County  of  Monroe. 

When  our  country  needs  a  man  to  make  her  go, 
She  can  find  no  better  one  than  in  Monroe. 

You  just  place  one  at  the  wheel 

And  he'll  make  the  country  feel 
That   it   has   been   meandering   rather   slow. 

My  native  little  town  is  in  Monroe, 
There's  no  other  like  it  any  place  you  go ; 

It   is  built   among  the   hills, 

And  its  street  with  rapture  fills 
At  the  coming  of  a  Punch  and  Judy  show. 

There  are  other  towns  that  nestle  in  Monroe, 
But  compared  with  ours  they  are  rather  slow  ; 

We  are  plenty  good  enough, 

Altho'  diamonds  in  the  rough, 
But  when  sun-rays  dart  athwart  us  how  we  glow. 

I'm  a  Hoosier  from  the  County  of  Monroe ; 
A  county  where  the  greatest  blessings  flow ; 

I  will  stick  to  her  like  glue, 

It  should  be  the  same  with  you, 
And  we'll  all  be  Hoosier  people  in  Monroe- 

— Louis  Napoleon  Williams. 
Stinesville. 


Let  us  have  equality  before  the  law,  then  survival  of 
the  fittest. 


^ 


A    HAPPY    EVENT    IN   MY    LIFE. 

I  attended  a  country  district  school  in  Southern  Michigan.  I  was 
one  of  seven  tow-headed  youngsters  in  our  family,  consisting  of  the 
brother  and  six  sisters.  My  parents  were  much  given  to  "entertain 
ing  the  preacher"  when  he  made  his  quarterly  visits  to  the  neighbor 
hood  church.  The  Sundays  when  the  preacher  was  our  guest 
were  the  longest  and  most  dreaded  days  of  my  life,  for  I  had  to 
"keep  still  and  behave,"  when  he  was  there.  My  parents  also  "took 
turns"  in  entertaining  the  school  teacher,' who.  "boarded  round"  and 
suffered  a  corresponding  reduction  of  wages.  The  coming  of  the 
teacher  was  hailed  with  great  pleasure  for  I  was  one  of  the  "upper 
ten"  in  school.  The  pleasant  things  the  teacher  would  say  of 
"Nellie" — as  I  was  familiarly  known — as  a  pupil,  made  me  an  aris 
tocrat  in  my  own  home  circle,  and  made  his  presence  a  great  joy- 
to  me. 

My  elder  sister  would  read  the  Bible  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
but  she  could  never  "leave  off  at  the  head"  of  the  spelling  class. 
I  couldn't  endure  to  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  for  it  was  all 
Greek  to  me,  but  I  gloried  in  wearing  the  medal  home  as  a  svmbol 
of  my  ability  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the  spelling  class.  So  the 
preacher  and  the  teacher  were  often  told  that  "Jennie  was  the 
Bible  reader  and  Nellie  the  speller"— a  sort  of  mental  stand-off,  as 
to  the  goodness  and  brilliancy  of  us  twain. 

I  will  confess   that   this   medal,     which   consisted  of   a  silver   half- 


dollar  with  a  hole  in  it,  through  which  a  blue  ribbon  was  drawn 
which  served  to  suspend  it  from  the  neck,  had  more  charms  for 
me  than  all  the  creeds  of  the  apostles,  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  the 
Golden  Rule  and  the  Ten  Commandments  combined.  My  greatest 
delight  was  in  wearing  this  medal  home  to  show  that  I  had  left, 
off  at  the  head  of  the  class.  A  prize  was  offered  each  term  to  the 
pupil  who  had  performed  this  feat  the  greatest  number  of  times. 
The  whole  neighborhood  was  interested  in  knowing  who  would  win 
the  spelling  prize.  It  was  a  greater  honor,  in  those  days,  than  it  is 
to-day  for  one  to  go  to  congress  from  a  country  neighborhood.  Who 
wouldn't  try  for  such  an  honor?  The  readers-  of  this  sketch  who 
learned  to  spell  under  the  inspiring  method  of  "going  up  and  down" 
will  fully  appreciate  the  interest  taken  in  winning  the  prize.  I 
was  ten  years  old;  I  had  a  competitor  in  the  person  of  a  freckled 
faced  boy  about  my  own  age,  Wallace  Heath,  by  name.  It  was  an 
easy  task  to  get  above  all  others  in  the  class  but  Wallace  "never 
missed."  And  as  I  never  missed  it  came  about  that  one  day  he 
would  leave  off  at  the  head,  take  his  place  at  the  foot  the  next  'day, 
when  I  would  leave  off,  always  leaving  him  at  the  head  whenever 
I  went  to  the  foot. 

It  came  to  next  to  the  last  day  of  school.  Master  Heath  had 
"left  off  at  the  head"  twenty-two  times  and  I  had  worn  the  medal 
home  twenty-one  times,  standing  at  the  foot  the  last  day  of  school, 
my  competitor  succeeding  me  on  that  day  at  the  head.  Our  les 
son  was  the  three  long  lines  in  Sanders'  spelling  book,  one  line 
ending  in  "scissors,"  the  other  in  "bureau,"  and  the  last  in  "biscuit." 
To  win  a  place  at  the  head  this  last  day  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
hopeless  task.  The  familiar  sayings:  "When  there  is  a  will  there 
is  a  way,"  "Never  give  up  while  life  lasts."  "If  at  first  you  don't 
succeed  try,  try  again,"  surged  through  my  anxious  brain.  I 
resolved  to  try,  for  maybe  my  competitor  would  rniss^  I  took  my 
spelling  book  home  with  me  that  night.  On  the  way  home  I  told 
my  classmates  that  I  would  get  up  to  the  head  "see  if  I  did  not." 
A  new  zeal  took  possession  of  them  for  they  determined  to  keep  me 
at  the  foot.  That  last  day,  my  freckled  faced  competitor  would 
look  over  towards  me  with  an  air  of  complacency  that  set  my  heart 
all  a  flutter,  as  I  saw  his  determined  "Ah,  Nellie,  you  can't  win  this 
time.'  There  was  something  mysterious  in  that  word  "biscuit." 
I  felt  it  in  my  bones  that  that  was  the  word,  if  any,  that  would 
give  me  the  coveted  prize.  One  word  after  another  was  given 
out  by  my  calm-faced  teacher.  No  one  missed.  I  stood  like  a 
stump,  at  the  foot  of  the  class.  Finally  the  last  word  in  the  lesson, 
on  the  last  day  of  school  and  my  last  chance  was  given  to  Wallace, 
standing  self-satisfied  in  his  apparent  victory,  at  the  head.  "Bis 
cuit,"  said  the  teacher.  "B-i-s-c-i-u-t,"  said  Wallace.  "Next," 
said  the  teacher.  My  heart  seemed  to  jump  into  my  throat. 
"B-Ks-c-1-t,"  "B-i-  s-ciutt,"  "Buiscuitt,"  "Bisskuitt,— and  so  on 
until  it  became  a  badly  mixed  specimen  of  orthography  as  the 
word  ran  down  the  whole  line  of  anxious  and  excited  pupils.  Each 
one  turned  the  nead  down  the  line;  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
flashing  eyes  they  saw  the  word  reach  me  at  the  foot.  Without 
waiting  to  spell  the  word  and  then  march  to  the  head  with  tread 
and  dignity  of  a  conquering  shero,  I  ran  as  I  spelled,  "B-i-s-c-u-i-t." 
When  the  last  letter  was  spoken  I  stood  at  the  head.  I  won  the 
twenty-second  time.  As  Wallace  and  I  had  equal  numbers  both 
were  entitled  to  a  prize.  It  was  in  the  early  days  of  water  color 
paintings  when  almost  every  person  had  a  box,  3x5  tnches,  containing 
tiny  blocks  of  vari-colored  paints.  The  teacher  was  quite  proficient 
(in  our  childish  eyes)  with  the  brush.  She  had  prepared  two 
cards,  one  a  bunch  of  apple  blossoms>  and  the  ether  a  spray  of 
fuchias.  "Seeing  I  was  a  girl"  I  was  permitted  to  take  first 
choice.  So  I  chose  the  fuchias,  which  prize  I  still  possess  as  a 
sweet  reminder  of  one  of  the  happiest  events  of  my  life  and  a 
triumph  over  serious  difficulties.  The  event  has  marked  my  whole 
life.  Let  a  desire  possess  my  soul  and  let  me  feel  the  righteousness 
of  my  cause,  no  discouragements  can  thwart  me,  or  turn  me  from  my 
purpose.  So  do  the  simple  things  of  life  make  or  mar  us. 

—Helen   Mar   Jackson  Gougar. 
LaFayette,   Indiana. 


AMERICA. 


The  name  of  America  will  be  heard  with  veneration 
amid  the  roar  of  Pacific's  waves,  upon  the  rivers  of 
the  north,  the  billows  of  the  south  and  the  fragrant 
land  of  the  east  where  liberty  is  divided  from  mon 
archy^  and  be  wafted  in  gentle  breezes  from  every 
stream  and  lake.  It  shall  rustle  in  the  harvest  and 
wave  in  the  standing  corn,  and  be  heard  in  the  bleating 
folds  and  lowering  herds  upon  a  thousand  hills,  it 
shall  be  proclaimed  by  the  stars  and  stripes  on  every 
sea  of  earth,  as  the  American  Union,  one  and  indivis 
ible.  Its  greatness  shall  be  hailed  with  gladness.  It 
shall  be  lisped  in  the  earliest  words,  and  ring  in  the 
merriest  voices  of  childhood  and  swell  to  heaven  upon 
the  songs  of  maidens.  It  shall  live  in  the  stern  re 
solve  of  manhood  and  rise  to  the  mercy  seat  upon 
woman's  gentle  prayer.  Holy  men  shall  invoke  its 
perpetuity  at  the  altars  of  religion,  and  it  shall  be 
whispered  in  the  last  accents  of  the  expiring.  Thus 
shall  live  the  American  republic  long  after  our  bodies 
become  food  for  the  worms,  and  when  it  shall  be  pro 
claimed  that  time  shall  be  no  more  and  the  cur 
tains  shall  fall,  still  may  the  destiny  of  our  dear  land 
recognize  the  conception  of  the  poet  of  her  primitive 
days — 

"Perfumes  as  of  Eden  flowed  sweetly  along, 

And  a  voice,  as  of  angel's,  enchantingly  sung: 
Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 

The   queen  of  the  world  and  the  child  of  the 
skies." 

— Harry  Burr  Darling. 
La  Porte. 


PICTURESQUE  ERIN. 

'Mong  ruins  of  castles,  of  abbeys  and  towers, 
'Twixt  wooded  islands  and  green  leafly  bowers, 
Past  remnants  of  convents  and  churches  of  fame, 
Are  the  scenes  in  a  land  that  I  scarcely  need  name. 
For  I  trust  that  my  readers  have  loved  it  so  well, 
That  on   picturesque   Erin   I  happily   may  dwell. 
Now  just  a  few  moments  in  pleasure  to  while, 
And  in  spirit  traverse  the  fair  Emerald  Isle. 
O  !  seek  where  you  will  'mong  the  treasures  of  art, 
And  none  so  like  nature  appeals  to  the  heart. 
For  on  hillside  and  valley,  on  land  and  on  sea. 
Glows  a  lesson  for  you,  and  a  lesson  for  me. 
All  lands  have  their  beauty  and  souvenirs  rare, 
Yet   'tis  but   a   foretaste   and   cannot   compare, 
With  the  halo  of  beauty  that  crowns  Erin's  shore. 
Thou  "Sweet  Innisfallen"  of  darling  Tom  Moore, 
With  thy  ivy-clad  ruins  and  moss-laden  walls, 
Thy  picturesque   abbeys   and   rook-haunted   halls — 
O  land  full  of  charms,  teach  our  world-weary  hearts, 
The  contentment  and  hope  that  thy  beauty  imparts, 
Tho'   tumbled   thy   palaces,    doomed   to   decay, 
Yet  thy  story  of  glory  shall  ne'er  fade  away. 
Antiquity's  spirit  hath  shadowed  thee  o'er, 
But  thy  youth  reincarnate  shall  fade  nevermore. 
Then  teach  us  the  lesson,  O  land  of  our  sires, 
To  live  on  with  a  courage  that  never  shall  fail. 
Our  hearts  with  thy  ever-new  hope  to  inspire  ; 
Be  this  thy  blest  mission,  sweet  land  of  the  Gael. 

— Helen   May  Trwin. 
Ft.  Wavne. 


WHEN  PAPA  HOLDS  MY  HAND. 

I  ain't  afwaid  o'  horses  n'r  stweet-cars,  n'r  anyfing; 

N'r  aut-tomoblies,  n'r  th'  cabs;   an'  onct,  awa-a-ay  last  spwing, 

A  grea'  big  hook  an'  ladder  fing  went  slapty-bangin'  by 

An'  I  was  putnear  in  th'  way  an'  didn't  even  cry! 

'Cause  when  I'm  down  town  I  go  'wound  wif  Papa,  un'erstand, 

An'  I  ain't  fwaid  o'  nuffin'  when  Papa  holds  my  hand! 

Cause  stweet-cars  wouldn't  hurt  him!     An'  th'  horses  wouldn't  dare! 

An'  if  a  aut-tomobile  run  agin  him — he  won't  care! 

He'll  al'ays  stand  between  me  and  th'  fings  wif  danger  in — 

I  know  so,  cause  he  al'ways  has,  ist  ev'rywhere  we  been. 

An'  nen  at  night  I  laugh  myself  clean  into  Dweamyland 

An'  never  ca're  how  dark  it  is,  when  Papa  holds  my  hand. 

'S  a  funny  fing — one  night  when  I  put-tended  I  was  'sleep, 

An'  Papa's  face  was  on  my  hand,  I  felt  a  somepin'  cweep 

Acrost  my  fingers;  an'  it  felt  ezactly  like  a  tear, 

But  could'nt  been,  cause  wasn't  any  cryin't  I  could  hear; 

An'  when  I  ast  him  bout  it,  he  ist  laughed  t'  beat  th'  band — 

But  I  kep'  wonderin'  what  it  was  'at  cweeped  out  on  my  hand! 

Sometimes  my  Papa  holds  on  like  I  maybe  helped  him,  too; 

An'  makes  me  feel  ost  awful  good  puttendin'  1'ke  I  do; 

An'  Papa  says — w'y  Papa  says — w'y — somepin'  like  'at  we 

An*  God  ist  keep  a-holdin'  hands  th'  same  es  him  an'  me. 

He  says  some  uvver  fings  'at  I  ist  partly  un'erstand — 

But  I  know  this:     I'm  not  afwaid  when  Papa  holds  my  hand. 

—Strickland  Wordsworth  Gillilan. 
(Author  of  "Off  A'gin,  Finnegan.") 
Indianapolis. 


IL  BEL  CANTO. 
(Permission  of  the  New  York  Independent.) 

The  minstrel  in  his  motley  cloak, 

With  the  plume  and  floating  hair, 

Could  turn  the  torches'  tawny  smoke  to  incense  in  the  air. 

The  dame  upon  the   dais   dreamed, 

The  good  knight  pondered  near, 

The  man-at-arms  a  statue  seemed  that  leaned  upon  its  spear; 

And  all  the  humble  vassal  throng 

Were  mute  in  groups  apart, 

The  while  he  sang  a  fitting  song  for  every  beating  heart. 

He  sang  of  meadows,  trippingly, 
That  dimpled    neath  the  breeze; 

Of  kine  that  stood  where  ripplingly  the  waters  lapped  their  knees; 
Of  vines  with  clusters  amethyst, 
Of  orchards  sagging  low, 

Of  red  moons  peering  through  the  mist  when  heaped  barns  over 
flow; 

Of  feast-days,  frequent,  glad  and  long, 
Of  liege-lords  kind  and  mild, 
And  as  the  bard  gave  o'er  his  song  the  vassals  stirred  and  smiled. 

He  sang  again — of  battlefield 

And  puissant  deeds  of  war; 

Of  splintered  pike  and  riven  shield  and  cloven  helmet  bar; 

Of  glory  hand  in  hand  with  death, 

Of  valor  deified; 

Of  men  who  cheered  with  latest  breath  the  cause  for  which  they 

died; 

Of  leaguered  towns  defenders  held 
Tho  plague  and  famine  came, 
And  as  he  ceased  there  hoarsely  swelled  the  warriors'  deep  acclaim. 

He  sang  again — and  now  his  song 

Moved  all  the  listening  band; 

Each   peasant  found   among  the  throng  a  peasant  maiden's  hand; 

The  man-at-arms  resolved  to  seek 

The  heart  he  longed  to  know; 

And  something  brushed  the  lady's  cheek  when  once  a  torch  burned 

low. 

The  arches'  echo  held  it  long 
The  raptured  hush  above  — 
The  lowly,  lofty,  world-wide  song— the  earth-old  song  of  love! 

— Bessie  Miller. 
Indianapolis. 


A  WORD  ABOUT  WORDS. 

If  there  had  been  no  picturesque  Indiana  with  furrowed  field, 
open  wood  and  slanting  hillsides;  if  the  writer  could  not,  while 
inhaling  the  odor  of  the  new-plowed  ground  and  steeping  her  soul 
In  mystic  beauties,  have  had  an  eye  ana  an  ear  and  a  heart  for  the 
human  being  who  directed  the  furrow;  if  there  was  no  folk-lore, 
nor  history,  nor  out-of-door  source  of  exaltation,  might  not  our 
writers  find  inspiration  enough  within  the  lids  of  an  unabridged 
dictionary?  Might  it  not  still  have  been  "literary  Indiana?" 

The  spoken  or  written  sign  of  an  idea — words.  Beautiful,  reson 
ant,  meaningful  words.  Plain,  forceful,  simple  words.  Imagine 
living  without  speech— the  song  of  life  and  the  life  of  love!  "In 
the  beginning  was  the  word."  The  first  and  the  last.  Without 
which  there  would  be  no  love,  no  hate,  no  business,  no  books: 
neither  war,  nor  peace.  Words — that  will  stalk  or  scamper,  flout 
or  flourish,  languish  or  leap,  according  to  the  marshalling  ability 
of  their  master;  that  can  color  with  every  hue  and  subdue  with 
manifold  shadows,  earth's  every  language.  A  rich  vocabulary 
and  pleasing  "style"  in  the  tongue  learned  in  babyhood  is  very 
inviting  and  altogether  delicious.  There  are  word-feasts  on  our 
bookshelves  that  can  never  wither  nor  decay,  nor  become  vapid 
with  long  standing. 

What  shall  be  said  of  slang,  and  of  dialect?  One  of  the  great 
masters  of  the  word-craft  said  of  the  origin  of  slang:  "It  is  the 
blear-eyed  language  of  misery."  Perhaps,  then,  dialect  might 
aptly  be  called  the  squint-eyed  language  of  the  humble, — and  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  a  squinting  eye  is  often  an  indication  of 
a  shrewd  mind.  When  not  overdone,  dialect  is  almost  as  expres 
sive  and  impressive  as  the  face  of  the  real  character  would  be. 
In  the  case  of  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  made  such  a  long,  patient  and 
loving  search  for  little  Em'ly,  the  dialect  from  his  lips  portrays 
him  almost  as  well  as  his  photograph  would.  When  he  tells 
about  the  night  "it  snew  so  'ard,"  we  can  see  and  hear  and  feel 
the  chilliness  of  the  snow-storm,  and  can  realize  his  troubled  efforts 
to  press  his  honest  old  body  and  ruddy-tanned  face  bravely  through 
it. 

Ah,  words  are  wondrous  things,  said — and  unsaid!  Sweet  and 
soulful  and  sorrowful;  stern  and  harsh  and  bitter.  Cruel  as  death. 
Sweeter  tha.n  life. 

A  lifetime  spent  in  learning  how  to  put  them  together  will  make 
an  author. 

— Rua  Cassandra  Miller, 
Darlington. 


LITTLE  ONES. 


Children's  voices  how  we  love  them, 
Sweetest  music  to  our  ears, 
Down  through  ages  softly  blending, 
With  the  ripe  and  golden  years. 

Gladsome  notes  their  hearts  are  thrilling, 
Ringing  on  through  time  and  space, 
Each  fond  glance  His  praises  telling, 
Beams  forth  with  His  loving  grace. 

Little   children,    God's   own   treasures, 
Stored  with  youthful  race  and  beauty, 
Tripping  lightly  through  lifes  pleasures, 
Drinking  all  its  sweets  and  joys. 

Little    arms    encircles   us, 
Pleading  eyes  look  into  ours, 
Questions  oft  we  can  not  answer, 
Come    from    tho  c    loving   lips   of   theirs. 

— Nannie  E.  Greene  Decker. 
Anderson. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  CHARIOT  RACE  IN  BEN  HUR. 
(By  kind  permission  of  the  author.) 

There  had  never  been  anything  of  the  kind  more  simple;  seldom 
anything  so  instantaneous. 

At  the  moment  chosen  for  the  dash,  Messala  was  moving  in  a 
circle  around  the  goal.  To  pass  him,  Ben  Hur  had  to  cross  the 
track,  and  good  strategy  required  the  movement  to  be  in  a  forward 
direction;  that  is,  on  a  like  circle,  limited  to  the  best  possible 
increase.  The  thousands  on  the  benches  understood  it  all:  they 
saw  the  signal  given — the  magnificent  response;  the  four  close 
outside  Messala's  outer  wheel,  Ben  Hur's  inner  wheel  behind  the 
other's  car — all  this  they  saw.  Then  they  heard  a  crash  loud 
enough  to  send  a  thrill  through  the  Circus,  and,  quicker  than 
thought,  out  over  the  course  a  spray  of  shining  white  and  yellow 
flinders  flew.  Down  on  its  right  side  toppled  the  bed  of  the 
Roman's  chariot.  There  was  a  rebound  as  of  the  axle  hitting  th^ 
hard  earth;  another  and  another;  then  the  car  went  to  pieces;  and 
Messala.  entangled  in  the  reins,  pitched  forward  headlong. 

To  increase  the  horror  of  the  sight  by  making  death  certain,  the 
Sidonian,  who  had  the  wall  next  behind,  could  not  stop  or  turn 
out.  Into  the  wreck  full  speed  he  drew;  then  over  the  Rornaii. 
and  into  the  latter's  four,  all  mad  with  fear.  Presently,  out  of 
the  turmoil,  the  fighting  of  horses,  the  resound  of  blows,  the  murky 
clouds  of  dust  and  sand,  he  crawled,  in  time  to  see  the  Corinthian 
and  Byzantine  go  on  down  the  course  after  Ben  Hur,  who  had 
not  been  an  instant  delayed. 

The  people  arose,  and  leaped  upon  the  benches,  and  shouted  and 
screamed.  Those  who  looked  that  way  caught  glimpses  of  Messala, 
now  under  the  trampling  of  the  fours,  now  under  the  abandoned 
car.  He  was  still,  they  thought  him  dead;  but  far  the  greater 
number  followed  Ben  Hur  in  his  career.  They  had  not  seen  the 
cunning  touch  of  the  reins  by  which,  turning  a  little  to  the  left,  he 
caught  Messala's  wheel  with  the  iron-shod  point  of  his  axle,  and 
crushed  it;  but  they  had  seen  the  transformation  of  the  man,  and 
themselves  felt  the  heat  and  glow  of  his  spirit,  the  heroic  resolution, 
the  maddening  energy  of  action  with  which,  by  look,  word,  and  ges 
ture,  he  so  suddenly  inspired  his  Arabs.  But  such  running!  It 
was  rather  the  long  leaping  of  lions  in  harness;  but  for  the  lum 
bering  chariot,  it  seemed  the  four  were  flying.  When  the  Byzantine 
and  Corinthian  were  half-way  down  the  course,  Ben  Hur  turned  the 
first  goal.  And  the  race  was  won! 

—Lew  Wallace. 
Crawfordsville. 


CHEERFULNESS    AND    CHRISTIANITY. 

Example  and  not  pretext  is  the  surest  index  of  the 
virtues  of  men,  for  a  diamond  will  glitter  in  the  cap 
of  a  peasant  as  well  as  in  the  crown  of  a  king.  If  a 
man  earnestly  strives  to  ascertain  the  right  and  then 
makes  an  honest  effort  to  do  it,  he  will  provide  himself 
with  some  very  good  religion  for  every-day  use.  The 
fact  is,  a  man  can  well  be  a  Christian  without  being 
a  crank. 

UA  laugh  is  worth  a  hundred  groans  in  any  market." 
The  melancholy  man  who  cannot  laugh,  is  a  misfor 
tune.  The  sanctified  maa  who  rebukes  others  for  laugh 
ing  is  an  outrage.  The  man  who  laughs  is  easily  under 
stood.  There  is  no  mystery  in  the  purpose  of  his  be 
ing.  He  is  a  living,  moving,  breathing  benediction, 
blessing  all  and  blessed  by  all.  As  the  sunshine 
warms  the  earth  in  the  springtime  and  brings  forth 
the  flowers,  so  does  laughter  warm  the  heart  and  bring 
forth  that  which  is  good.  The  smile  and  not  the  tear, 
brightens  the  household  and  chases  the  spectre  of  care 
from  the  hearthstone.  The  good-natured  man  who 
laughs  his  way  through  the  world,  sails  his  boat  over 
a  summer  sea,  while  the  melancholy  man  is  cast  among 
the  breakers  without  rudder  or  compass.  'Tis  true 
we  cannot  always  laugh  for  sorrow  has  her  season 
and  when  she  enters  the  door  and  takes  her  seat  at 
the  fireside,  mirth  folds  her  hands  and  is  silent.  Happy 
is  the  man  who  looks  upon  the  bright  side  of  the  pic 
ture  of  life  and  turns  from  the  shadows  and  walks  in 
the  sunshine.  The  man  who  refuses  to  laugh  when 
he  can,  strews  thorns  in  his  pathway  as  he  plucks 
the  roses  and  sows  the  thistles.  The  man  who  per 
suades  himself  that  there  is  an  antagonism  between 
cheerfulness  and  religion,  turns  from  the  lesson  that 
the  Hand  of  God  has  written.  Dyspepsia  and  religion 
should  not  be  confounded.  Cheerfulness  is  the  hand 
maid  of  contentment,  and  true  devotion  will  not  be 
come  enthroned  in  the  heart  until  contentment  takes 
her  seat  in  the  conscience.  Humilitation  and  morti 
fication  are  not  necessary.  If  a  man  is  cheerful  and 
contented  while  doing  good,  he  acMs  lustre  to  his  vir 
tues  and  pleases  God  by  pleasing  His  creatures. 
Cheerfulness  is  to  the  children  of  men  what  the  stars 
are  to  the  night  and  the  flowers  to  the  fields.  Cheer 
fulness  and  contentment,  hand  in  hand,  often  pass  the 
rich  man's  door  to  enter  the  poor  man's  cottage.  A 
happy  peasant  is  more  to  be  envied  than  an  unhappy 
king.  — Henry  Clay  Fox. 

Richmond. 


DREAMS. 

Dreams  ought  to  be  utilized.  I  have  a  friend  who,  from  the  recol 
lection  of  almost  any  night  s  sleep,  can  furnish  the  plot  for  a  very 
respectable  novel;  yet  these  all  remain  unrecorded.  We  have  no 
right  to  permit  so  much  literary  capital  to  be  wasted.  In  old  times, 
when  men  believed  in  dreams,  they  played  an  important  part  in 
poetry  and  history.  The  Evil  Dream  dispatched  by  Jove  descended 
from  Olympus  and  sat  by  the  ear  of  his  victim  like  Satan  at  the 
Ear  of  Eve.  The  dreams  of  Pharaoh  and  Nebuchadnezzar  were  the 
forerunners  of  the  destinies  of  Egypt  and  Babylon. 

But  in  our  more  skeptical  age  this  noble  temple  of  prophecy  and 
warning  has  been  left  desolate,  and  the  origin  of  dreams  is 
attributed,  not  to  the  gods,  but  to  dyspepsia.  Their  interpreter  is 
no  longer  the  national  prophet,  but  the  family  physician.  They 
are  abandoned  by  poet  and  historian.  Their  weird  and  golden  phan 
tasies  have  died  almost  completely  out  from  the  literature  of  the 
world.  Once  in  a  generation  some  master  hand  strikes  the  strange 
chords  of  dream  life,  as  when  Shakespeare's  Clarence  dreams  of 
the  retribution  of  eternity,  or  De  Quincy  pours  out  the  passionate 
music  of  his  "Dream  Fugue  on  the  Vision  of  Sudden  Death,"  but 
the  myriads  of  dreams,  with  their  wild  scenes,  startling  situations, 
and  strange  imagery,  which  are  permitted  to  go  to  waste,  is  most 
shocking  to  a  proper  sense  of  literary  economy.  What  an  interest 
ing  problem  to  explain  their  crabbed  logic,  to  unravel  their1  tangled 
skeins  of  thought  and  tell  why  the  most  extraordinary  characters 
meet  at  the  mo<st  important  places  and  do  such  startling  things. 
Why  is  our  imagination  most  free  and  active  while  we  sleep?  Was 
the  old  idea  after  all  the  true  one  that  a  "dream  is  also  from  God?" 
Why  can  we  not  control  them?  Why  is  it  that  both  for  delight 
and  pain  they  must  have  their  will  of  us,  and  transport  us  at  their 
sovereign  pleasure  to  heaven  or  to  hell?  Is  it  to  tell  us  that  our 
waking  hours  are  equally  at  the  mercy  of  inexorable  fate?  Why  do 
they  deal  so  pitilessly  with  those  we  love,  making  them  not  only 
the  objects  of  calamity,  but  even  the  agents  of  crime,  placing  the 
vials  of  poison  in  the  hands  that  are  the  fondest  and  tenderest  on 
earth,  or  crowning  with  the  diadem  of  prosperity  the  brows  of  our 
deadliest  enemy?  What  right  has  a  dream  to  work  this  strange 
phantasmagoria  with  our  hopes  and  fears,  our  fortunes  and  our 
affections? 

—William  Dudley  Foulke. 
Washington,  D.  C. 


EPIGRAMS. 
The  Cynic's   Idea  of  Marriage. 

The  bait  seems  tempting  while  the  trap  stands  wide, 
I  '.MI  things  look  different  to  the  mouse  inside. 

Conceit. 

Conceit  still  dogs  Humility, 
For  think  how  it  would  grieve  us, 
When  we  confess  our  inmost  faults, 
To   have  the  world  believe  us! 

The  Penalty. 

Not  to  the   "lion"   is   the   hunt   amusing, 
Nor  by  the  wit  should  one  fact  be  ignored-  - 
The  more  you're  capable  of  entertaining, 
The  more  you're  capable  of  being  bored. 

The  Wordless  Poem. 

What  need  to  toil  with  rhyme  and  metre? 

The  thought  I  labored  to  express 

The  rose-vine  speaks   in  language  sweeter, 

Ay,  more  divine  and  far  completer, 

In  one  rich  bud's  pink  loveliness. 

ECLIPSE. 

God  keep  us  from  the  sordid  mood 
That  shrinks  to  self-infinitude, 
That  sees  no  thing  as  good  or  grand 
That  answers  not  the  hour's  demand, 
And  throws  o'er  Heaven's  splendors  furled 
The  shadow  of  our  little  world. 

ON    CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

How  we  remember  Him!    Year  after  year 
In  vain  exchange  more  costly  gifts  are  bought. 
We  dine  the  surfeited— but  leave  Him  out, 
And   give  Him   naught! 

And  while  we  feast,  by  bare  and  cheerless  hearths 
Hang  little  empty  stockings!     In  distress 
How  many  a  wee,  cold,  disappointed  child 
Sobs  supperless! 

How  can  we  think  the  heart  of  Christ  is  glad 
When  thus  we  keep  His  day?     Ah,  at  the  need 
Much  rather  of  His  poor,  unclothes,  unfed. 
How  it  must  bleed! 

— Albion  Fellows  Bacon, 


Evansville. 


THE  TREE. 

And  up 

The  Spring's  bright  leaves  bath  in  Arcadian  sun, 
Feel  the  warmth,  and  the  light  lilt  of  wings — 
High,  yet  higher  still  there  floats 
Bright   cloud   vapor;    back  curved  throats 
Of  happy  bird  life  widening  flings 
Their  lives'   essence,   sculptured   into   sound — 
All   Worlds  their  One. 
Wide  and  around 

Down,  down  there  beneath  the  bole, 
Spread  thick  in  little  sameness, 
A   multitude  trefoliate  roll. 
Heads — little  bee  calling  flowers, 
Beneath  and  little  from  their  highness, 
In  dappling  of  purple  showers 
Invite  their  wandering  eye: 

Their  high,  bird  mated,  breeze  and  sun  warmed  eye. 
These  little,  dainty  things — they  pity  them, 
Unhappy  and  near  to  earth, 
Reaching  and  longing  from  their  little  stem 
For  their  high   birth. 
The  flowers? 

Life  hath  many  strains  within  her  harp, 
Where  leaves  float  high  and  falling  petals  carp — 
The  flowers — 

Long  ere  the  leaves,  serrate  on  their  stem 
Had  burned  and  fallen  fruitless  mingling  them 
Had  from  each  head  a  multitude  of  like — 
Alike  and  fertile,  reared  sweet  holding  cups 
Above  the  blades,  beneath  them,  and  the  moss 
And  loamy  ground  the  scuttling  ground  things  cross; 
Happy  and  like; 

Blind  of  that  beneath,  and  from  it  sups 
A  thankfulness  of  that  more  high. 
And  blade,  and  clover  head,  and  leaf,  and  cloud, 
And  feathered,  circling,  darting,  happy  Life, 
All  passing  by 
Rife 

With  little  Selves  cohesions  shroud 
Into  the  greatness  of  their  little  sheath 
Unto  themselves— see  not  that  more  high 
Understanding^,  the  more  than  that  beneath. 

— Florence  Lmsley  Fox. 


Richmond. 


JULIETTE'S  QUESTION. 

A  tiny  girl  with  nut-brown  hair 
Kneels  down  beside  her  mother's  chair, 
Asking  Him  who  heareth  prayer 

To  guide  her  little  feet. 
Then   climbs   she   up   on   mamma's  knee 
And  cuddles  close  as  close  can  be, 
While  mamma  sings  a  lullaby 

In  accents  low  and  sweet. 

The  bright  head  turns  from  side  to  side, 
The  trip  to  Dreamland  seems  denied : 
At  last,  a  fairy  tale  is  tried 

Whose  magic  ne^er  fails. 
And  Juliette  lifts  her  drowsy  eyes. 
As  blue  and  soft  as  summer  skies, 
And  asks  the  question  wondrous  wise, 

"Do  Fairies  all  have  Tails?" 

— Elizabeth  Mifflin  Laws  Hibberd. 
Richmond. 


HOW   THE    COLONEL    LOST    OUT. 

"Yes,"  said  the  colonel  reflectively,  "many  queer  things  do  happen 
—things  that  a  man  would  have  a  hard  time  in  explaining  if  he  were 
called  on  to  do  so.  I'll  tell  you,  young  gentleman,  that  in  this 
life  of  mine  I  have  had  at  least  one  experience  that  would  drive  some 
men  to  drink,"  and  the  colonel  looked  around  suggestively. 

The  colonel,  a  one-armed  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  was  the  best 
raconteur  of  the  club,  and  as  such  was  eagerly  listened  to  by  the 
younger  generation.  A  tap  of  the  bell  brought  a  round  of  his  favor 
ite  beverage,  and  after  sampling  it,  with  glasses  in  easy  reach,  we 
all  settled  back  in  our  chairs  to  listen  to  the  story  that  was  sure  to 
come. 

"You  fellows  have  all  heard  how  I  lost  this  arm  at  Pine  Ridge? 
When  I  enlisted  in  the  20th,  like  many  another  young  fellow,  I  left 
a  sweetheart  in  Indiana  whose  promise  had  been  given  me — a  beauti 
ful,  high-spirited  girl— who  kissed  me  bood  bye,  and  saw  the  regiment 
march  away  with  a  cheer  on  her  lips  and  but  few  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Before  we  parted  she  slipped  a  ring  on  my  finger,  and  as  I  left  she 
'st^id:  'Wear  this,  dear;  bring  it  back  with  you,  and  be  true  to 
your  flag  and  me.' 

"Well,  I  wore  the  ring  all  through  our  long,  hard  campaign,  until 


that  Pine  Ridge  cannon  ball  came  along,  took  away  arm  and  ring, 
and  left  me  unconscious  on  the  battle  field.  After  a  hospital  experi 
ence  I  finally  recovered,  sufficiently  to  be  sent  home,  -with  a  colonel's 
commission,  discharged  as  unfit  for  duty. 

"At  the  old  home  i  was,  of  course,  treated  as  a  hero.  The  young 
ladies  insisted  on  showing  me  flattering  attentions;  I  was  asked 
everywhere,  and  was  quite  the  lion  of  the  hour. 

"Isabel,  my  fiancee,  was  as  devoted  as  before,  I  suppose,  but  her 
nature  was  such  that  she  was  too  proud  to  show  her  feelings  as 
plainly  as  my  vanity  sometimes  wished  her  to  do,  and  as  a  conse 
quence  I  began  to  think  that  she  had  changed  toward  me.  It  may 
be  that  another  girl,  a  little,  plump,  black-eyed  charmer,  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  this  idea,  but,  at  any  rate,  I  soon  began  to  notice 
other  charms  than  Isabel's. 

"One  night  my  fiancee  and  I  attended  a  reception,  and  Sadie,  the 
black-eyed  charmer  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  was  there  also,  Isabel 
and  I  had  tired  of  mingling  with  the  throng  and  had  round  a  secluded 
place  in  the  conservatory.  We  talked  until  weary  and  sat  there  in 
silence,  when  Sadie  came  in.  She  did  not  see  us,  and  as  she  stood 
by  the  side  of  a  large  palm,  in  an  attitude  of  unstudied  grace,  I 
thought  she  formed  the  most  beautiful  picture  that  I  had  ever  seen. 

"Almost  involuntarily  I  contrasted  her  charms  with  those  of  the 
proud  beauty  at  my  side.  To  my  eyes  the  advantage  all  lay  with 
Sadie.  Her  beautifully  rounded  figure  seemed  to  be  my  ideal  of 
loveliness,  and  I  wished  that  I  might  clasp  her  in  my  arms— arm,  I 
mean— and  tell  her  how  sweet  a  picture  she  made.  The  longing 
grew  almost  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  I  had  half  risen  to  my 
feet,  forgetting  Isabel's  presence,  when  I  was  stopped  by  a  strange 
thing  that  was  taking  place.  Faintly  outlined,  a  mere  vapor  at 
first,  but  growing  plainer  with  each  succeeding  second,  where  Sadie 
stood  there  appeared  the  figure  of  a  man's  arm  clothed  in  a  soldier's 
sleeve  of  blue. 

"The  arm  slowly  curved  itself  around  Sadie's  waist,  and  as  it 
tightened  itself  into  a  firm  hug,  like  a  star  of  light,  a  ring  on  the 
hand  showed  itself  to  my  startled  gaze.  My  eyes  seemed  to  be 
starting  from  my  head  in  amazement,  for  the  ring  was  that  which 
Isabel  had  given  me,  and  the  hand  that  I  looked  at  was  the 
exact  likeness  of  my  missing  one. 

"A  cry  at  my  side,  of  mixed  fear  and  rage,  brought  me  to  my 
senses.  Isabel  was  standing  with  outstretched  arms  pointing  at  the 
apparition.  'What  does  this  mean,  sir?'  she  said.  Her  voice  aroused 
Sadie,  who,  seeing  the  image  around  her  waist,  promptly  fainted. 

"I  have  told  this  story  to  several  persons,  and  but  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  give  me  an  explanation.  He  was  an  ascetic  from  India, 
who  was  lecturing  on  'The  Influence  of  Mind  Over  Matter.'  He  told 
me  that  my  desire  to  embrace  Sadie  had  been  impressed  very  strong 
ly  on  my  astral  being,  that  that  part  of  my  being  had,  for  the  time, 
got  control  over  my  physical  body,  and  that  the  arm  which  I  saw 
was  the  arm  that  I  had  lost,  and,  being  lost,  was  trying  to  follow  the 
impulse  that  would  have  controlled  it  had  it  still  continued  to  be 
a  part  of  my  body  and  subject  to  the  control  of  my  mind.  Others 
did  not  accept  this  theory,  and  some,  I  regret  to  say,  were  skeptical, 
while  a  few  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  vision  had  been  induced 
by  a  large,  well-developed  jag.  You  fellows  can  think  as  you  please. 
I  leave  the  solution  of  the  problem  with  you.  Waiter!  Another  one 
of  the  same  kind." 

"But,  colonel,"  cried  several  in  protest,  "what  became  of  the 
girls?  Did  you  marry  Sadie?" 

"Marry!  Huh!"  grunted  the  colonel,  between  swallows,  "don't  you 
know  I  was  never  married.  Isabel  dismissed  me  then  and  there 
for  losing  the  ring  she  had  given  me.  And  Sadie,  when  I  asked 
her  later  to  marry  me,  replied  with  ill-concealed  horror  that  she 
was  sorry,  but  that  she  could  never,  under  any  circumstances,  marry 
a  piece  of  a  man  whose  dismembered  fragments  were  in  the  habit 
of  embracing  every  woman  whom  their  former  owner  might  take 
a  fancy  to." 

And  the  Colonel  set  down  his  empty  glass  and  went  to  join  another 
group. 

—Harvey  Harmon. 
Princeton. 


A  SIGH  FOR  YE  KNIGHT  OF  OLD. 
A  Contrast. 

All  force,  all  powerful,  he  stands 
His  feathered  helmet — 
Glistening  in  the  sun  ; 
His  mighty  muscles,  broadened 
Shoulders,  splendid  head  and  arm — 

My  knight! 

*  *  *  * 

Long  years  ago,  we  met  and  loved, 
I  know  it  so. 

My  satin  frock  swept  by  the 
Antlered  door.    A  curtsey    dropped 
Quite  to  the  floor,  and  from  my 
Hair  a  rose,  which  quickly, 
As  he  spied  it,  went  to  hold 
A  dearer  place  near  his 
Great  heart,  great 
In  its  love  of  honor, 
Love  of  home  and  state, 
Of  courtesy  and  gentle  strength ; 
A  love  fcr  all  that 
Went  for  might  and  good — 

My  knight! 


*  *  *  * 


He's  off  of  his  wheel 

And  in  with  a  shout — 
"Oh  !  Marie,  dear  Marie, 

What  are  you  about? 

"Let's  away  to  the  links, 

Or  it  will  be  fun 
In  the  automobile 
To  ghe  Ted  a  run. 

"Come,  into  your  short-skirt 

Without  more  ado !" 
I — can't — have — the — other 
So — I — guess — Gus'll — do. 

Margaret  Randolph  Jewett. 
Evansville. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  BURDEN. 

Pile  up  the  poor  man's  burden — 
The  weight  of  foreign  wars ! 

Go   shrewdly   yoke   together 
Great  Mercury  and  Mars, 

And  march  with  them  to  conquest, 
As   once  did  ancient   Rome, 

With  vigor  on   her   oorders 

And  slow  decay  at  home! 

Pile  up  the  poor  man's  burden ! 

Accept  Great  Britain's  plan  ; 
She  does  all  things  for  commerce, 

Scarce  anything  for  man  ! 
Far  off  among  the  pagans 

She  seeks  an  open  door 
While   Pity   cries  in   London 

"God  help  the  British  poor!" 

Pile  up  the  poor  man's  burden ! 

His  sons  will  hear  our  call ; 
Will    feed   the   jungle    fever 

And  stop  the  Mauser  ball ; 
Will   fall,   far  off,  unnoted, 

For  spoils  they  may  not  share, 
And  spill  their  blood  to  water 

A  laurel  here  and  there ! 

Pile  up  the  poor  man's  burden ; 

Keep  in  the  old,  old  track! 
Let  glory  ride  as  ever, 

Upon  the  toiler's  back ; 
Lay  tax  on  tax  upon  him, 

Devised  with  subtle  skill- 
Call  forth  his  sons  to  slaughter 

And  let  him  pay  the  bill ! 

Pile  up  the  poor  man's  burden ! 

The  lords  of  trade,   at  least, 
May   drink,   like    King   Belshazzar, 

In  comfort  at  the  feast ; 
May  boast,  as  did  the  monarch 

Within  his  palace  hall, 
While  God  wrote  out  his  sentence 

In  fire  upon  the  wall ! 

— Howard  S.  Taylor. 
Chicago. 


INDIVIDUAL    IN    LITERATURE. 

To  be  individual  in  literature,  to  be  a  writer,  what  must  one 
possess — talent  or  perseverence  in  the  exercise  of  that  talent?  Or 
does  one  have  to  feel  what  he  writes? 

We  may  write  correctly,  and  learn  to  write  well;  we  may  have 
the  advantage  and  beauty  of  form,  but  a  book  without  tone, 
(which  constitutes  style),  a  book  without  that  invisible  something, 
whether  real  or  imaginative,  which  makes  living  creatures  appear 
on  its  pages,  lacks  everything. 

It  is  the  beauty  and  charm  of  art,  in  writing,  that  attracts  and 
satisfies  man;  not  the  subject,  which  is  insignificant. 

No  matter  how  many  plots  or  new  themes  are  invented,  they  are 
summarized  into  these  four.  Man,  may  be  considered  with  the 
idea  of  his  relations  to  himself,  to  his  brother,  to  the  fairer  sex, 
to  the  infinite. 

Happily  the  tendency  of  the  writer  of  to-day  is  towards  optimism. 


That  he  seeks  to  get  away  from  unpleasant  thought,  and  inartistic- 
tones,  is  most  obvious.  His  efforts  are  made  to  secure  single 
tones,  and  simple  designs,  as  in  painting  and  sculpture.  As  in  art, 
we  notice  a  commendable  feeling,  subdued,  refined,  harmonious 
and  soothing. 

Writers,  when  regarded  from  the  point  of  view  of  method,  ot 
temperament,  or  of  style,  differ  greatly. 

A  representative  of  the  traditional  school  of  fiction,  bases  his 
novel  themes  upon  material  that  everyone  has  used.  If  he  is 
fortunate  enough  to  have  discovered  some  new  and  unfrequented 
nook,  wherein  to  lay"  his  plot,  he  may  be  able  to  work  out  some 
combinations  that  are  both  piquant  and  possible,  and  in  conse 
quence  charm  his  readers.  It  will,  however,  require  the  greatest 
skill,  and  a  very  delicate  perception  of  all  their  possibilities,  and 
an  artistic  eye  for  nature,  to  draw  exquisite  backgrounds,  to  make 
it  interesting,  or  acceptable.  Other  writers  give  simple  glimpses  01 
life,  EO  depicted,  that  they  abound  in  humor,  and  quaint  fancies, 
yet  possess  a  perfectly  true  sense  of  proportion.  Especially  doeb 
the  short  story  writer  prove  effective,  where  his  stories  are  admir 
able  in  proportion  to  their  brevity. 

Then  there  is  the  good  story  teller,  who  vivid  and  daring,  tells 
it  with  such  courage,  that  he  might  be  accused  of  recklessness. 
He  must  have  a  vein  of  sentiment,  close  to  his  humor  so  that  he 
will  never  overwork  either  the  pathos  or  the  humor.  He  brings 
into  the  tepid  atmosphere  of  our  mid-century  literature.,  a  whiti 
of  mountain  air,  with  a  piney  flavor  to  ii,  that  is  bracing  ana 
delightful. 

The  old  world  is  not  sufficiently  rich  in  mirth  that  it  can  affor* 
to  lose  this  class.  Of  their  kind  they  are  inimitable,  and  will  fart 
far  better  than,  \vhat  might  be  termed  heavy-weights  in  literature, 
who  can  only  claim  such  immortality,  as  to  be  handsomely  bound, 
aid  never  read. 

Fate  has  made  some  famous,  others,  whom  praise  has  lulled  to 
sleep,  are  oblivious  to  the  stages  of  literary  life,  where  they  are 
loved,  hated,  ignored,  praised,  forgiven  to-day,  forgotten  tomorrow. 

The  influence  of  some  writers  is  so  great  that  they  could  no 
more  be  ruled  out  than  a  Napoleon,  Earl  of  Beaconsfield,  or  Cecil 
Rhodes,  or  any  other  personification  of  power.  They  stand  to-day 
with  the  best  of  their  foreign  brothers,  pure  and  simple,  even  as  an 
oM  master  on  the  walls.  They  have  recognized  technical  arcomp- 
lishments,  and  to  spare,  have  dared  to  stray  from  the  hopelessly 
conventional  path,  and  display  originality— they  are  a  synonym 
for  new  world  art.  Emersonian  in  greatness,  glowing  as  a  Rubens, 
and  colorful  as  a  Turner. 

Since  all  the  stars  that  twinkle  are  not  of  the  first  magnitude, 
why  refuse  to  shine?  Stars  of  lesser  magnitude  are  not  necessarily 
powerless,  they  may  light  the  pathway  of  someone,  whose  efforts 
and  struggles,  may  help  the  world  onward,  and  humanity  to  a 
higher  level,  and  brighter  day.  History  has  never  been  a  purist, 
in  what  it  has  adjudged  great.  It  has  always  been  more  like  a 
gleaner  in  a  wheatfield,  more  intent  on  gathering,  and  saving, 
than  particular  in  its  selections.  The  truly  great  writer  is  the  one 
who  can  listen  with  charmed  impartiality,  can  digest  and  assimi 
late  the  praises  of  others — he  is  indeed  great. 

—Louise  Spilker. 

New  York. 


THE  VANITY  OF  MEN. 

A  desire  for  personal  ornamentation  has  always  been  regarded 
as  a  quality  of  mind  peculiar  to  woman  alone.  To  believe  one-half 
that  is  written,  she  is  a  creature  whose  main  business  in  life  is 
to  haun-t  milliners'  stores  in  search  of  the  proverbial  "love  of  a 
hat,"  or  divide  her  time  dawdling-  over  dry-goods  counters  and  the 
dressmakers.  It  has  become  the  fashion  to  thus  speak  slightingly 
of  women  as  being  inordinately  fond  of  display. 

Those  who  affect  to  believe  that  women  have  a  "corner"  in  vanity 
ire  fond  of  quoting  the  list  of  her  besetting  sins  as  enumerated  in 
Holy  Writ  and  applying  to  the  female  sex  the  love  for  "tinkling 
ornaments,  their  cauls,  their  round  tires  like  the  moon,  the 
chains  and  bracelets  and  the  mufflers,  the  head-bands  and  earrings, 
the  changeable  suits  of  apparel,  the  mantles  and  the  wimples  and 
the  crisping  pins,  the  glasses,  the  fine  linen  and  hoods  and  vails." 

It  is  astonishing  how  accurately  and  glibly  this  passage  is  quoted 
by  men  who  do  not  know  another  word  of  the  Bible.  Never 
once  do  they  get  twisted  on  the  wimples  and  the  crisping  pins 
although  it  possibly  might  puzzle  them  to  define  these  terms.  But 
is  not  this  catalogue  designed  to  show  the  utter  vanity  of  the 
female  character  matched  in  our  own  times  by  the  elaborate  acces 
sories  of  a  gentleman's  toilet,  which  includes  such  fripperies  as 
diamond  shirt  studs,  ornamental  canes,  opera  glasses,  perfumes, 
pomades,  scented  baths,  jewels,  elaborate  neckties,  expensive  gloves, 
slippers,  luxurious  dressing  gowns,  smoking  jackets  and  caps,  em 
broidered  hose,  fine  underwear,  silk  negligees,  ruffled  night-shirts, 
and  sweet,  flowing  pajamas,  the  whole  rivaling  in  splendor  and  cost 
the  magnificent  wardrobe  of  an  Oriental  potentate. 

Surely  fair-minded  judges  will  admit  that  this  list  offsets  the 
other,  yet  notwithstanding  this  showing  it  is  hard  for  the  average 
man  to  believe  that  feminine  vanity  is  matched  by  his  own.  The 
male  writers  of  the  world  have  kept  back  man's  weakness  too  long 
for  this  error  to  be  easily  routed.  Even  the  venerable  prophet 
Jeremiah  takes  a  hand  in  it  and  boldly  asks:  "Can  a  maid  forget 
her  ornaments  or  a  bride  her  attire?"  Oh!  Jeremiah {  Holy 
Prophet!  Well  do  we  know  that  there  were  no  Knights  of  Pythias 
or  Noble  Order  of  Red  Men,  or  Sons  of  Veterans,  or  the  Grand 
Order  of  This  and  That  and  the  Other  in  your  day  or  never  would 
your  mighty  pen  have  employed  weak  woman  and  her  finery  as 
subjects  for  your  simile! 

Decked  in  dazzling  trappings  that  flash  and  glitter  like  gems  in 
the  sunlight,  with  waving  plumes  and  resplendent  head-gear,  giddv 
scarfs,  bright  tassels,  gold  lace  and  polished  brass,  "sword  and  pistol 
by  their  sides,"  stepping  proudly  to  the  blare  of  trumpets  with 
streaming  banners  and  gaudy  pennants  flying,  ten  thousand  men, 
more  or  less,  will  parade  up  and  down,  around  and  across  a  dusty 
city  under  a  broiling1  sun,  hour  after  hour. 

And    for    what? 

To  be  admired.  To  make  a  display.  To  show  how  handsome 
they  look. 

They  are  the  heroes  of  the  hour.  From  dizzy  heights  as  far  as 
buildings  can  extend  they  know  that  fair  women  are  watching  them 
and  waving  dainty  handkerchiefs.  They  know  the  streets  are 
thronged  to  suffocation  with  a  surging  mass  of  spectators,  young, 
old,  rich,  poor,  women  with  babies  in  their  arms,  school  children- 
all— everybody— a  whole  city  full—  who  have  gathered  there  to  feast 
the  eye  on  their  beauty  and  elegance! 

And  their  bosoms  swell  with  pride  and  they  hold  their  shoulders 
straighter,  and  they  step  more  proudly  while  the  chief,  captains 
and  leaders  of  the  host  who  ride  on  prancing  chargers  feel  the 
grandeur  of  the  situation  and  nod  their  plumed  heads  like  mighty 
Joves  from  the  summit  "of  Olympus.  Fatigue  and  perspiration 
and  aching  limbs  are  swallowed  up  in  Vanity. 

Then  let  their  gala  days  be  frequent  as-  they  will.  None  will 
censure  them  their  love  for  these  pretty  exhibitions.  They  are 
only  straws  showing  how  marvellously  similar  is  the  mind  of  man 
and  woman.  But  let  us  adjure  our  masculine  friends  in  future 
to  own  their  full  share  in  human  weaknesses.  , 

—Virginia  Sharpe  Patterson. 
Kokomo. 


WILLIAM  McKlNLEY— A  MEMORIAL  TRIBUTE. 

A  great  personal  sorrow  has  befallen  us.  The  same  sorrow  has 
thrown  its  ghastly  shadow  across  the  pathway  of  every  one.  We 
have  all  of  us,— of  all  parties  alike,  of  all  sections  alike—  but  just 
turned  our  faces  sadly  from  the  new  made  grave  of  a  mighty 
friend  and  kinsman  of  our  own.  Yonder  we  laid  him  by  the  home 
that  he  loved.  Yonder  sleeping  in  the  bosom  of  a  continent,  whose 
chief  nation  he  had  guided  into  an  immortal  destiny — a  destiny 
that  had  been  preparing  for  us  since 

"The   dark  was   smote   in   twain 
And  the   stars   first    saw   each   other  plain—" 

there  we  laid  him  amid  the  tears  of  millions.  For  the  infamous 
hand  that  struck  out  this  immortal  life,  struck  a  blow  directly, 
at  the  hearts  of  eighty  millions  of  people.  Yes,  move  than  eighty! 
millions.  His  loss  was  the  loss  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  His 
gain — the  gain  of  his  immortal  life  and  thrice  immortal  martyr 
dom — was  the  gain  of  all  the  Sons  of  God  that  speak  of  liberty  and 
courage  and  voice  their  faith  and  hope  and  sorrows  in  the  English 
tongue.  That  nation  that  gave  us  the  proud  blood  from  which 
he  descend  or  rather  from  which  he  ascended  that  nation  which 
is  boun'fl  to  us  by  all  the  ties  of  'kindred  blood  and  common  names', 
by  all  the  ties  of  'similar  privileges,  of  united  hopes  and  common 
laws,'  has  been  touched  with  the  cry  of  our  mourning.  Wherever 
liberty  has  thrilled  men  with  hope,  there  our  sorrow  has  touched 
'that  homely  sympathy  that  heeds  the  common  life/  that  great 
common  life  of  the  race  which  shares  our  sorrow  and  which  must 
also  partake  of  the  majestic  responsibilities  of  that  enlarged 
destiny  which  the  life  and  death  of  William  McKinley  have  be 
queathed  as  an  unalienable  heritage  to  mankind. 

Slowly  indeed  did  God  form  William  McKinley.  Slowly  indeed 
the  star  of  destiny  beamed  above  him  and  guided  him  onward. 
God  never  gave  him  a  work  to  do  until  he  had  fitted  him  to  do  that 
work.  He  never  made  him  Congressman  until  He  had  fitted  him 
to  stand  among  the  great  constructive  statesmen  whose  names 
ornament  the  roll  of  our  national  honor.  He  never  made  him 
Governor  until  He  had  fitted  him  to  lift  to  higher  things  one  of  the 
noblest  commonwealths  ever  built  by  the  sorrowing  but  triumph 
ant  toil  of  men.  He  never  made  him  President  until  He  had  fitted 
him  to  stand,  as  a  ruler,  by  the  side  of  Alexander,  by  the  side  of 
Caesar,  by  the  side  of  Napoleon  and  Frederick  the  Great  and  the 
kingly'  Cromwell.  This  is  no  mere  orator's  tribute.  Far  be  it 
indeed  from  being  a  partisan  tribute.  'Tis  the  proud  tribute  ot 
time.  'Twill  be  the  prouder  tribute  of  eternity.  For  when  Time 
shall  have  finished  her  work,  and  shall  record  for  immortality 
those  rare  spirits  which  have  been  the  proudest  achievements  of 
her  toil,  she  will  not  speak  in  mighty  voice  of  William  McKinley 
the  Congressman,  who  shaped  a  policy  that  guided  an  unhappy 
nation  from  the  despair  of  a  disastrous  poverty  into  the  pride  and 
glory  of  a  limitless  prosperity;  she  will  not  speak  of  William 
McKinley,  the  Governor,  the  masterful  helmsman  of  a  free  state, 
moving  grandly  on  towards  a  nobler  civilization  and  a  more  fruit 
ful  mode  of  being;  she  will  not  even  speak  of  William  McKinley, 
the  President,  the  immortal  ruler  of  an  imperial  race,  who  broad 
ened  the  destiny  of  the  centuries,  and  stamped  a  new  conceptior 
of  human  greatness  upon  the  imaginations  of  mankind:  but  in  that 
still  small  voice,  which  has  forever  been  the  sweetest  eloquence 
that  eternity  has  set  upon  the  lips  of  time,  she  will  whisper  to  the 
uttermost  coasts  of  destiny,  the  name  of  William  McKinley,  the 
child-lover,  William  McKinley,  the  wife-lover,  William  McKinley, 
the  neighbor-lover,— the  lover  of  men,  the  first  gentleman  ot  ms 
time,  the  last  princely  heritage  of  a  Christian  civilization  and  i 
noblest  figure  that  trod  the  modern  day. 

Vprnnn 


AN    EXTRACT    FROM    "INDIANA." 

Silas  Templeton.— "Yes  lad,  you  kin  talk  'bout  the  advantage  uv 
Indianapolis  but  I  don't  want  none  o  city  life  in  mine.  Sich 
livin'  is  all  right  fer  them  as  likes  it,  but  give  me  the  old  place 
where  you  and  me  wuz  born.  I'd  die  if  I  didn't  hev  a  rail  fence 
ter  set  on  and  whittle  'casionally  er  if  I  cudn't  smell  the  blossoms 
uv  the  peach  er  apple  tree." 

Robert  Templeton.— "But  father,  don't  you  get  lonesome,  living 
here  all  by  yourself?" 

Silas. — "Lonesome!  Why,  boy,  I've  bin  lonesome  nigh  onter  twenty- 
five  year.  Bin  lonesome  ever  since  thet  day  in  January  when  we 
scraped  away  the  snow  and  laid  yer  mother  ter  rest  in  the  church 
yard.  You  don't  rickolict  her,  I  reckon.  No,  you  wuzn't  but  four 
years  old  when  she  died.  Then  I  had  ter  be  both  father  and 
mother  ter  you,  lad,  I  nursed  you  through  the  measles  and  the  ty 
phoid  fever  and  hev  watched  yer  disposition  ever  since  you  wuz  big 
enough  ter  run  'round  and  talk.  'Fore  very  long  I  see  you  didn't  take 
ter  farm  work  and  then  I  begin  ter  figer  and  save  so's  I  cud 
send  you  away  ter  school,  cause  I  knowed  yer  mother  wud  a 
wanted  you  edicated  if  she  wuz  livin'.  Durin'  the  winter 
months  when  you  wuz  away  at  school  and  work  wuz  slack  'bout  the 
place  I  cudn't  help  but  feelin'  lonesome  as  I  set  by  the  old  fire 
place  where  you  and  me  set  so  many  times.  And  when  spring 
time  'ud  come  and  the  birds  'ud  sing  and  I  knowed  it  wuzn't  fur 
off  when  you'd  be  comin'  home  fer  summer  vacation  seemed  as 
I  cudn't  hardly  wait  ter  see  you,  and  I'd  git  lonesomer  than  ever. 
Then  I'd  pick  a  bunch  o'  lilacs  and  mozey  over  ter  the  church-yard 
and  put  'em  on  yer  mother's  grave.  She  allus  liked  lilacs  and 
after  that  seemed  as  how  I  wudn't  feel  so  lonesome  like.  And 
ever  since  you  got  yer  piece  o'  sheepskin  with  the  writin'  on  signed 
by  yer  perfessor  and  hev  bin  livin'  in  Indianapolis  I've  do^e 
nothin'  else*  but  be  lonesome  until  th'  other  day  I  put  on  my  meetin' 
clothes  and  'lowed  I'd  run  down  and  see  you  fer  a  spell  and  then 
somethin'  seemed  ter  say  ter  me,  "Silas  Templeton,  yer  aint  got  no 
business  doin'  any  sich  thing.  If  that  boy  wanted  you  ter  visit  him 
he'd  tell  yer  so."  I  'lowed  as  how  you  wuzn't  any  farmer  boy 
any  longer,  lad,  but  an  edicated  gentleman  and  thet  it  moughtn't 
do  you  no  good  ter  hev  yer  old  dad  come  pesterin'  'round  'monsrst 
yer  edicated  friends.  Somethin  'told  me  as  how  yer  moughtn't  like 
it  'cause  I  wuzn't  edicated  and  didn't  hev  no  fine  ways  like  city 

folks.        Thought    you    mought    feel    kind    o' shamed    uv    me,    lad, 

and  I  didn't   want  that." 

Robert.— "Ashamed    of    you!      Why,    I—" 

Silas  (interrupting).— "No  need  uv  feelin'  bad  lad,  yer  all  I've  got 
and  if  yer  gettin'  'long  and  are  happy  don't  mind  'bout  yer  old 
dad.  I  want  you  ter  succeed,  and  as  fer  me — guess  I'll  git  'long 
somehow.  Guess  I'll  turn  In  now.  Bin  workin'  purty  hard  all 
day.  Afore  you  come  ter  bed  don't  fergit  fpr  blow  out  the 
candle  in  the  kitchen.  (Going.)  Good  night,  lad." 

—Graham    Paul    Taber. 
LaPorte. 


NOVEMBER  DREAMS. 

•When  you  lie  awake  at  night  entertaining  insomnia,  did  you 
ever  note  the  different  sounds  that  haunt  the  darkness?  You  hear 
the  clang  of  a  distant  bell,  the  shriek  of  a  locomotive,  the  dry  leaves 
rustle  under  the  light,  timid  footsteps  of  some  shy  creature,  until 
the  wind  sends  them  eddying  away  across  the  lawn  and  fills  their 
places  with  a  fresh  shower  from  the  top  most  limbs  of  a  huge  oak 
just  without  your  bedroom  windows. 

A  sleepy  bird  sends  forth  a  sweet  voiced  protest,  and  some  way  you 
fall  to  thinking  of  how  very  soon  the  snow  and  sleet  will  come.  If 
winter  should  come  tonight  would  that  cricket  in  the  grass  outside 
that  has  never  stopped  for  one  single  instant  during  the  last  four 
hours,  freeze  to  death?  'Tis  a  cheerful  little  beast,  and  it 
would  be  a  pity  for  it  to  die  such  a  death.  You  would  find  it  to 
morrow  perhaps,  and  carry  it  to  a  house  where  there  is  a  big  wood 
fire,  and  it  shall  sing  upon  the  hearth  while  the  master  laughs,  a 
laugh  that  makes  you  think  of  spare-ribs,  and  sweet  potatoes,  and 
apple-toddy  and  pop  corn. 

We  were  foolish  youths  when  we  first  sat  beside  that  glowing 
fire — but  it  was  a  foolishness  worth  all  the  wisdom  of  age,  and  how 
we  slept  after  an  evening  there. 

How  we  watched  the  dancing  flames  as  a  drowsiness  stole  over  us, 
in  the  midst  of  our  dreams  of  future  greatness!  We  would  be  poets, 
some  day,  and  all  the  world  should  hear  of  us.  Had  we  not  written 
verses  for  the  school  journal,  and  did  not  several  different  people 
say  they  were  remarkable  for  so  young  an  author?  We  liked 
flattery  laid  on  with  a  trowel  in  those  days,  and  nothing  less  satis 
fied  us.  We  were  not  guiltless  of  fishing  for  compliments,  and 
enjoyed  them  even  when  they  were  dragged  in  by  the  hair.  But 
all  these  rosy  dreams  were  not  sufficient  to  keep  us  long  awake, 
and  we  slept  like  any  other  conscienceless  creature,  hours  upon 
hours,  and  no  voices  of  the  night  were  heard  by  us  then.  Storms 
gathered  and  broke  about  our  dwelling,  the  house  was  smitten  by 
lightning,  a  tree  nearby  was  blown  down  with  a  great  crash,  but  we 
knew  naught  of  it,  nor  cared,  because  "The  thoughts  of  youth  are 
long,  long  thoughts,"  and  we  were  much  too  busy  with  them  to  pause 
because  the  elements  were  at  war. 

Will  such  sleep  as  that  ever  again  visit  our  pillows?  Is  there 
any  phillter  known  to  science  that  can  bring  it  back?  And  that 
the  night  wears  on  till  "jocund  day  stands  tip-toe  on  the  misty 
mountain  top"  and  the  loud  clang  of  the  breakfast  bell  seems  at 
first  a  rude  discord.  But  it  rings  on  and  on,  getting  farther  away 
at  every  stroke,  until  its  echo  comes  to  us  from  a  distant  shore, 
and  we  in  a  flower-laden  boat  with  silken  sails  float  on  a  sea  of 
milk  to  the  land  of  the  lotus,  where  the  queen  of  dreamland  stands! 

— Adelaide  Eugenia  Sherry. 
West  Point. 


THE)  FUTURE  OF  OUR  NATION. 

The  little  ship  of  state,  launched  upon  the  troubled  waters,  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  revolutionary  war,  is  destined  under  the  providence 
of  God,  to  lessen  the  burdens  of  the  oppressed,  and  to  enlighten,  ele 
vate  and  bless  the  whole  world. 

The  experiment  of  self-government  has  proven  a  success,  and  since 
the  formation  of  our  government  by  the  original  colonies,  star  after 
star  has  been  added  to  the  galaxy  of  states. 

The  purchase  of  Louisiana  from  France  in  1803,  more  than  doubled 
the  area  of  our  territory.  Then  the  annexation  of  Texas,  our  Mexi 
can  treaties,  the  purchase  of  Alaska  from  Russia  and  the  acquisi 
tion  of  our  late  possessions,  have  more  than  quadrupled  our  original 
domain. 

The  people  of  other  nations  coming  to  our  shores,  are  rapidly 
becoming  Americanized,  and  learning  to  speak  the  English  language. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  race  will  finally  girdle  the  earth  and  their  language 
become  the  language  of  the  world. 

Through  our  splendid  system  of  free  schools  the  masses  of  the 
people  are  being  educated,  and  prepared  for  the  duties  and  responsi 
bilities  of  citizenship,  and  every  one  the  privilege  of  carving  out 
his  own  destiny. 

We  look  at  the  future  destiny  of  our  country  with  patriotic  pride; 
when  it  shall  truly  become  the  beacon  light  of  the  world,  and  from 
it  all  nations  shall  catch  the  spirit  of  government  of  the  people,  for 
thr  people  and  by  the  people. 

The  earth  shall  then  blossom  as  the  rose,  kingly  power  shall 
cease,  the  down-trodden  shall  be  lifted  up,  and  the  Fatherhood  of 
God,  and  the  brotherhood  of  man  universally  recognized. 

Through  America  the  heathen  nations*  will  be  brought  under  the 
benign  influence  of  the  gospel  of  Christ.  God  has  raised  us  up  for 
that  purpose.  The  United  States  will  furnish  the  men  and  supplies 
for  this  grand  army,  fighting  against  sin  and  Satan  in  subjugating 
the  world  to  the  mild  reign  of  Prince  Emmanuel.  The  kingdoms  of 
this  world  will  then  become  the  kingdom  of  Christ. 

Two  things,  however,  menace  us  as  a  nation.  First,  the  liquor 
traffic,  authorized  and  protected  by  law— the  blackest  spot  today  upon 
the  pages  of  American  civilization. 

Second,  the  combination  of  capital  in  the  formation  of  trusts, 
whereby  the  rich  are  becoming  richer,  and  the  poor  poorer.  The 
antidote  for  these  evils,  however,  will  be  found  in  the  gospel  of  the 
grace  of  God.  When  all  shall  bow,  in  sweet  submission  to  the  mild 
scepter  of  the  King  Eternal,  then 

"Each  can  feel  his  brother's  sigh, 

And  with  him  bear  a  part, 
When  sorrow  flows  from  eye  to  eye, 
And   joy  from   heart  to  heart." 

If  true  to  our  mission,  then  what  a  glorious  destiny  awaits  us  as 
a  nation.  Hundreds  of  millions  of  happy,  prosperous,  contented  peo 
ple  will  one  dav  inhabit  our  land,  and  the  heart  of  every  true  loyal 
ritizen  will  swell  with  pride,  when  he  gazes  upon  the  stars  and  stripes, 
and  realizes  the  fact  that  he  is  an  American  citizen. 

— Mordecai    B.    McKinsey. 
Frankfort. 


I  «4*3^fll  *    KHL  .j;  ::Miiiit 

^ 


RELIGION  AND   PHILOSOPHY. 

Religion  and  Philosophy,  or  Reasoning,  are  not  two  separate 
sciences,  but  walk  hand-in-hand — "wedded/'  so  to  speak,  the  com 
plement  and  evidence  of  the  other. 

We  believe  and  hold  that  though  we  may  not  fathom  the  depths 
of  meaning  in  God's  revelation's,  yet  it  is  the  expression  of  all  God's 
art  or  poetry  as  is  nature  the  symbol  of  all  His  science,  and  life 
the  manifestation  of  all  His  philosophy. 

Man  in  God's  image,  is  but  an  imitation  of  his  Creator  and  so 
we  see  man,  like  unto  Him  in  whose  likeness  he  is  formed,  to  be 
a  creature  of  Science,  Art  and  Philosophy — a  three-phased  being — 
essentially  no  more. 

The  old  Catacombs  at  Rome  are  indeed  the  cradle  of  the  history 
of  the  burial  of  Christianity,  where  its  impress  has  left  its  tracks 
behind  forevermore  and  stand  in  undisputed  attestation  to  the  fact 
of  its  resurrection.  Next  to  Divine  Revelation  itself  Archaeology 
as  a  science  is  opening  the  way  to  the  unquestioned  fact  of  the 
reality  of  Christianity. 

In  the  Catacombs  of  Rome  and  of  other  ancient  cities  stand 
the  relics  and  engravings  belonging  to  the  age  of  the  Christian 
martyrs — of  Paul  and  the  others.  To  the  actual  visions  of  man 
to-day  are  they  an  "evidence  of  things  unseen."  We  cannot  deny 
what  with  our  eyes  we  see  and  what  on  the  pages  of  history  and 
Archaeology  is  recorded.  They  dare  not  be  false — it  is  in  our  power 
"to  go  and  see."  Then  it  is  that  Paul's  Letters  have  a  new  and 
intenser  meaning;  are  to  us  become  possessed  of  a  clear  and  hal 
lowed  sacredness. 

Study  the  Archaeology  of  Rome — its  history,  etc. — then  turn 
again  to  "Romans" — and  at  once  are  Paul's  melodies  become  a 
glad  and  joyous  requiem  with  the  awful  sublimity  of  truth  attend 
ing  unquestionable  and  inspiring.  Look  at  the  Babylon  of  sin  as  th? 
spectre  of  the  Catacombs  and  is  it  a  wonder  Jesus  on  the  cruel 
cross  turned  to  wailing  women  and  tenderly  enjoined  them: 
"Daughters  of  Jerusalem  weep  not  for  me,  but  weep  for  yourselves 
and  for  your  children."  We  in  the  sunlight  of  the  resurrection 
life  have  need  indeed  to  "look  up,  rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad' 
that  out  of  the  Catacombs  of  Rome  is  the  Well  spring  of  our 
Eternal  Day. 

— Cora  Broadherst  Jacks. 

Jamestown. 


A  DREAM   OF   YESTERDAYS. 
(From  "At  the  Court  of  Bohemia,"  Century  Book  Co.) 

As  I  close  my  eyes  from  weariness  to  all  that  is  about  me — 
Of  work  and  care  and  worry  that  have  made  my  own  their  ways — 

Another  picture  blots  from  sight  the  vexing  scenes  that  flout  me, 
And  I  journey  into  Dreamland  with  a  dream  of  Yesterdays. 

A  dream  of  summer  sunshine,  and  of  breezes  softly  sighing 

To  the  yellow,  mellow  sprites  a-dancing  thro'  the  swaying  leaves- 

Of  a  brook — a  silver  ribbon  winding  o'er  the  lush  mead  lying 
As  an  undulating  carpet  of  the  sort  no  mortal  weaves. 

The  fragrant  air  comes  laden  with  the  lilting,  lang'rous  voices 
Of  the  woodland  and  the  meadow — the  grand  opera  of  life; 

Where  love  and  laughter  linger,  and  the  God-made  soul  rejoices— 
Where  the  gates  swing  wide  to  pleasure  but  are  barred  to  pain  and 
strife. 

Was  it  all  a  passing  fancy— those  brief  hours  of  life  elysian? 

Did  they  disappear  forever  when  the  years  brought  wisdom's  pain? 
I  would  turn  back  to  the  Lethe-and-nepenthe   of  my  vision — 

Is  it  all  in  vain,  I  wonder?       May  I  never  dream  again? 

Does  the  same  soft  summer  sunshine  spread  its  splendor  through 

the  woodland? 

Do  the  birds  sing  just  as  sweetly — are  the  roses  just  as  fair? 
May  we  walk  again  the  primrose  paths  of  happy,  carefree  childhood.. 
When  our  Good  Night  is  Good  Morning  in  God's  playground  Over 
There? 

— Elwood  Eldenne  Small. 
Valparaiso. 


1 


«-'•• 


BEYOND  THE  LIMIT. 

(Courtesy  of  the  Century  Magazine.) 

A  dream  lay  on  the  rim 
Of  the  horizon  far  and  dim, 
Where  the  sea  and  sky  together 
Shut  in  the  golden  weather; 
The  ships  with  stately  ease, 
Close  to  the  steady  breeze, 
Drew  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
Pierced  the  limit  and  were  gone. 

The  headlands  in  the  sheen 
Of  orchards  waxing  green, 
Were  like  billows  of  rare  bloom  ; 
The  air  was  all  perfume  ; 
Great  sea-birds  overhead 
On  silent  pinions  sped ; 
All  was  so  sweet  and  calm 
That  mere  living  was  a  balm. 

But  somewhere,  far  away, 
A  hint  of  sorrow  lay ; 
A  vague,  deep  longing  stirred ; 
Some  strain,  as  yet  unheard 
(Of  music  strange,  to  shake 
The  heart  till  it  should  break), 
Was  just  beyond  the  rim 
Of  the  horizon  far  and  dim. 

OlandIO  sky!  O  sea! 
Is  there  no  peace  for  me? 
What  shadowy  dread  is  this 
That  hovers  round  my  bliss? 
Far  as  my  vision  goes 
My  tide  of  pleasure  flows  ; 
What  lies  beyond  the  rim 
Of  the  horizon  far  and  dim? 

— Maurice  Thompson, 
Crawfordsville. 


A  WISE  BIRD. 


The  crows  held  a  meeting  one  summer's  morn 
In  grandpa's  field  to  dig  for  corn, 

And  one  old  crow  with  a  shining  pate, 
Just  a  wee  bit  blacker  than  any  mate, 

Said,  "Come,  my  friends,  let  us  begin 
To  dig  for  corn,  'tis  sure  no  sin." 


But  in  looking  down  the  tempting  row 
He  spied  the  farmer's  old  scare-crow, 

And  the  wise  old  bird  just  flapped  his  wings 
And  cried,  "Do  you  see  that  funny  thing?" 

And  twisted  his  neck  and  laughed  "Ha !  Ha !" 
And  every  crow  replied,  "Caw!  Caw!" 


Grandpa  rummaged  the  garret  through 

And  found  the  old  umbrella  blue, 
And  smiled  and  said,  "I   think  to-day 

I've  got  'em  fixed  sure,  anyway," 
But  the  wise  old  bird,  when  the  day  got  hot, 

Discovered  this  nice,  cool,  shady  spot, 
And   said,   "What    a   nice   little   tent   the    farmer's 
made, 

While  the  rest  of  you    work,  I'll  sit  in  the  shade." 

— Hortense  Cora  Jackson. 
Richmond. 


GOLDEN   ROD. 

Sweetest   and    fairest   of   summer   Mowers, 
As  over  the   field  its  radiance  showers, 
And  over  the  clover  its  blossom  towers, 

The   beautiful   golden  rod. 
Standing  with  modest  and  graceful  air, 
Smiling  at  all  with  a  face  so  fair, 
Fit  for  a  queen  on  her  throne  to  wear, 

The  beautiful  golden  rod. 
Bowing  and  nodding  with  happy  glee, 
Greeting   the   bird    and   the   honey    bee, 
The  happiest  flower  in  the  field,  you  see, 

Is  beautiful  golden  rod. 

Where  in  your  walks  have  you  chanced  to  meet 
A   flower  whose  blossom  was  half  so   sweet, 
Except  near  its  own  little  country  seat, 

As  beautiful  golden  rod. 
How  quickly  it  brings  to  a  darkened  room, 
Where  all  before  was  sorrow  and  gloom, 
A  sunlight  and  joy  that  i«  wrought  by  a  bloom, 

Of  beautiful  golden  rod. 
It  reminds  you  again  of  the  legend   old, 
How  once  a  child  with  curls  of  gold 
Made  a  loving  wish,  that  is  often  told, 

By  beautiful  golden  rod. 
A  wish  that  all  her  face  might  see 
Should  change  from   sorrow  to  sweetest  glee, 
And  all  the  world  should  happy  be 

As  beautiful  golden  rod. 
Next  morn  as  the  sun  rose  o'er  the  hill, 
Little  golden  rod  was  standing  still 
While  the  whole  world  seemed  with  joy  to  thrill, 

Like  sweet  little  golden  rod. 
But  her  dress  was  changed  to  brightest  green, 
And  her  yellow  curls  to  a  golden  sheen, 
And  there  she  stood  as  the  flowers'  queen, 

This   beautiful   golden   rod. 
But  years  and  years  have  passed  away, 
And  yet  the  world  is  blithe  and  gay 
Wrhere'er  these  golden  blossoms  stray, 

This  beautiul  golden  rod. 

Bessie   Lee  Bleasc. 
Muncic, 


THE  ROSE. 

What  is  purer,  more  lender  than  the  rose 
As  it  opens  its  petals  and  wavering  blows? 
The  dew,  that  over  its  soft  petals  streams, 
Just  opens  the  buds,  just  begins  life's  dreams. 

Each  rose-leaf  is  one  whole  chapter  of  love, 
A  message  to  us  from  the  realms  above ; 
The  virtues  it  breathes  but  few  of  us  know, 
Yet  we  meet  with  the  rose  wherever  we  go. 

Oh!  how  can  we  compare  a  rose  and  its -thorn 
With  a  beautiful  soul  and  a  heart  that  is  torn? 
One  is  all  sunshine,  one  is  all  bliss, 
The  other  all  sadness— a  life  of  remiss. 

— Maud   Muller  Jones. 
Elwood. 


OLD  PEACH  BLOSSOM  TOWN. 

This  is  the  quaint  old  town.    From  hill  to  river 

The  vineyards  purpling  sweep — 
Floodeth  the  sunshine  with  a  brighter  glory. 

The  rose  hued  valleys  deep — 

Of  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

These  are  the  hills,  O  infinite  and  tender 

That  music-thrill  that  calls — 
A  note  of  joy  at  dawn  or  sunset  splendor 

Amid  the  water  falls 

In  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

This  the  old  Market  Place.      O  children  playing 

Today  within  the  Mart, 
Where,  where  are  those  who     in     Time's     pala< 

straying. 
Were  once  of  thee  a  part, 

Dear  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

Ah,  the  glad  scene !  to  wear  the  royal  ermine, 

As  if  a  cent'ry  dead ; — 
In  the  gold  twilight  of  a  living  sermon 

Hath  one  your  pages  read 

Fair  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

By  steps  celestial  to  its  closed  windows 

Now  raining  blessing  down  ; 
For  like  the  lilies  is  thy  memory's  highway 

In  tears  of  laughter  blown 

Dear  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

Here  in  thy  church-yard  are  the  sweets  revealing 

Of  love  from  earth  to  star, 
Hope-scented  are  the  cells  of  darkness  sealing, 

Joy's  misereres  far 

In  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

Life's  fluffing  leaf  with  universal  falling 

Into  Time's  whirlpool  drawn  ; 
May  I  but  hear  His  messengers  swift  calling 

From  dark  to  better  dawn. 

In  Old  Peach  Blossom  Town ! 

—Elizabeth  S.  Lamb  Thompson, 
Muncie. 


f 


'^Jl^m 

dsfe.      1^^ 


,      MYSELF  AND  YOU. 

There  are  only  myself  and  you  in  the  world, 
There  are  only  myself  and  you ; 

'Tis  clear,  then,  that  I  unto  you  should  be  kind, 
And  that  you  unto  me  should  be  true. 

And  if  I  unto  you  could  always  be  kind, 
And  you  unto  me  could  be  true, 

Then  the  criminal  courts  might  all  be  adjourned, 
And  the  sword  would  have  nothing  to  do. 

A  few  fertile  acres  are  all  that  I  need, — 

Not  more  than  a  hundred  or  two, — 

And  the  great,  wide  earth  holds  enough,  I  am  sure, 
Enough  for  myself  and  for  you. 

The  sweet  air  of  heaven  is  free  to  us  all ; 

Upon  all  fall  the  rain  and  the  dew ; 
And  the  glorious  sun  in  his  cycle  of  light 

Shines  alike  on  myself  and  on  you. 

The  infinite  love  is  as  broad  as  the  sky, 
And  as  deep  as  the  ocean's  blue, 

We  may  breathe  it,  bathe  in  it,  live  in  it,  aye, 
It  is  life  for  myself  and  for  you. 

And  the  Christ  who  came  when  the  angels  sang, 
Will  come,  if  the  song  we  renew, 

And  reigfn  in  his  kingdom — the  Prince  of  Peace — 
Reigning  over  myself  and  you. 

O,  then,  mav  I  be  unto  you  always  kind, 
And  be  you  unto  me  always  true; 

So  the  land  may  rest  from  its  turmoil  and  strife, 
And  the  sword  may  have  nothing  to  do. 

— Hana   Lavinia    Bailey. 
Richmond. 


THE  OVERSOUL. 

(From  "Lays  and  Lyrics,") 

If  I  were  blind  and  you  should  steal 

Into  my  presence  unaware, 
There  is  a  sense  to  flesh  unknown 
But  deeper,  higher,  heaven-sown, 

Would  testify  that  you  were  there — 
A  sense,  not  of  the  senses  five, 
Acute  and  subtle  and  alive 

As  they ;  magnetic  far  above ; 
A  prescience  keen,  elate, 

That  would  announce  thee,  O  my  love. 

If  I  were  deaf  and  you  should  speak 
In  dulcet  tones  fond  words  of  love, 
My  heart  would  hasten  to  reply 
In  suffused  cheek,  in  kindling  eye — 

Speech  without  words,  a  thing  to  prove 
My  soul  kept  understanding  clear, 
The  royal  right  of  souls,  sans  fear 

Of  mishaps  to  its  house  of  clay : 
This  or  that  window  barred 

Shall  not  debar  the  day. 

If  I  were  deaf  and  dumb,  and  blind, 

Dead  in  so  much  as  it  might  seem, 
Still  outlet,  inlet  there,  and  road 
Whereby  Omniscience  lights  the  load  ; 

Whereby  the  vision  and  the  dream 
Flow  in  ;  whereby  the  rainbow,  sign 
Vouchsafed  of  benison  benign, 

On  Sorrow's  background  smiles  at  rest ; 
For  clay  is  plastic  still  to  soul, 

Can  be  conformed  to  suit  its  guest. 

— Thomas  Ewing  Smiley. 
Indianapolis. 


PITTYPAT  AND  TIPPYTOE. 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoc, 

Here  they  come  and  there  they  go, 
Busy,   happy,  all  the  day, 
Full  of  fun  and  full  of  play, 

Running,   romping   to   and    fro, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe, 
If  you  meet  them  you  will  know 
That  their  little  hearts  are  pure, 
That  they  are  no  evil  doer, 
We  are  glad  that  it  is  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

Pittypat   and   Tippytoe, 
In   their  sled   upon   the   snow, 
Playing  Santa  Claus  is  near, 
With  his  toys  and  prancing  deer, 
Tuck  them  in  away  they  go, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe, 

Little  voices  sweet  and  low, 

Oh  !  what  will  your  future  be, 
Sailing  on  life's  stormy  sea, 

Full  of  danger,  full  of  woe, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe, 
I  have  always  loved  you  so, 
Sad  and  gloomy  is  the  home, 
If  you  never  have  been  known. 
For  vou  keep  the  heart  aglow, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

—Joseph  Wall. 
Huntingdon. 


A  PRAYER. 

Let  me  do  my  work  each  day ;  and  if  the  darkened 
hours  of  despair  overtake  me,  may  I  not  forget  the 
strength  that  comforted  me  in  the  sadness  of  other 
times.  May  I  still  remember  the  bright  hours  that 
found  me  walking  over  the  silent  hills  of  my  childhood, 
or  dreaming  on  the  margin  of  the  quiet  river,  when  a, 
light  glowed  within  me,  and  I  promised  my  early  God 
to  have  courage  amid  the  tempests  of  the  changing 
years.  Spare  me  from  bitterness  and  from  the  sharp 
passions  of  unguarded  moments.  May  I  not  forget 
that  poverty  and  riches  are  of  the  spirit.  Though  the 
world  know  me  not,  may  my  thoughts  and  actions  br- 
such  as  shall  keep  me  friendly  with  myself.  Lift  my 
eyes  from  the  earth,  and  let  me  not  forget  the  uses  of 
the  stars.  Forbid  that  I  should  judge  others  lest  I 
condemn  myself.  Let  me  not  follow  the  clamor  of  tfic 
world  but  walk  calmly  in  my  path.  Give  me  a  few 
friends  who  will  love  me  for  what  I  am  and  not  for 
what  little  I  may  possess.  And  though  age  and  in 
firmity  overtake  me,  and  I  come  not  within  sight  of 
the  castle  of  my  dreams,  teach  me  still  to  be  thankful 
for  life  and  for  time's  olden  memories  that  are  good 
and  sweet;  and  may  the  evening's  twilight  find  me 
gentle  still.  —Max  Ehrmann. 

Terre  Haute. 


THREE  GIRLS. 

Marion,  Mazie,  and  May  ! 

Three  girls  came  to  my  den  today, 

Three  girl  graduates,  sweet  of  course, 

Laughing  and  blushing  in  maider    remorse 

That  they  had  ventured  to  make  their  way 

Into  an  editor's  den  today. 

"Marion,  Mazie,  and  May." 
They  wrote  their  names  in  precisely  that  way 
On  my  blotting  pad,  which  is  scarred  and  blurred 
With  many  a  scratch  that's  the  ghost  of  a  word, 
And  then  they  left  me,  blithesome  and  gay 
At    thought   of   Marion,    Mazie   and    May. 

What  is  the  charm  of  a  laughing  maid, 
That  I,  who  am  middle-aged,  married  and  staid, 
Should  rejoice  in  a  visit  like  that  of  today, 
And  forget  that  my  head  grew  long  ago  gray, 
In  thinking  of  Marion,  Mazie,  and  May? 

What  is  the  charm  of  a  flower  by  the  way? 
Why  do  we  harken  to  songs  of  birds? 
What  is  it  in  the  beginning  of  day 
That  fills  us  with  joy  never  put  into  words? 
T?ead  me  these  riddles — then  ask  me  to  say 
The  wherefore  of  Marion,  Mazie,  and  May. 

— George  Gary  Eggleston. 
Madison. 


JUNE. 

O  leafy  June,  thy  fragrant  air 
Steals  on  the  senses  everywhere , 
From  meadow  lawn  and  wooded  hill 
There  comes  to  me  a  deep  heart  thrill ; 
Each  soft  breath  on  its  bosom  bears 
Some  treasure  of  the  buried  year. 

Old  memories  come  in  pressing  train — 
A  smile,  a  jest,  an  old  refrain, 
Of  some  long  since  forgotten  lay, 
In  chords  of  sweetest  melody. 
Each  perfume  whispers  soft  and  low, 
We  bring  you  back  the  long  ago. 

We  bring  for  hearts  o'er  fraught  with  care 
A  solace  in  the  balmy  air; 
From   pasture   field,    from   grassy   lane 
We  come  to  soothe  the  couch  of  pain. 
We  fan  and  cool  the  fevered  brow 
And  breathe  a  benediction  low. 

We  bring  you  back  the  hidden  face ; 
Through  us  each  lineament  ye  trace. 
O !  vanished  forms  to  memory  dear 
Ye  seem  again  to  linger  near. 
O !  tender  loving  eyes  long  dim, 
Ye  seem  again  to  softly  beam. 

Ye  flowers  that  bloom  the  graves  above, 

Ye  shed  the  incense  of  your  love  ; 

O'er  hallowed  dust,  your  leaves  ye  strew, 

As  light  as  falls  the  evening  dew. 

O  Nature!  all  thv  offering  bear 

The  impress  of  the  Father's  care. 

— Elizabeth  Bradbury  Harned. 
Richmond. 


MY  POSEY. 


A  lovely  posey  rests  on  i:iy  breast, 

Can  you  guess  the  flowers  in  it? 
The  rose,  and  the  lily  too,  pure  and  blest 

With  a  touch  of  sunshine  in  it. 
And  the  violet  soft  and  pure  and  fair, 

Yes,  a  cluster  of  bleeding-heart  too,  is  there. 

Tis  a  baby's  head  with  its  gold,  gold  hair 

That  I  hold  upon  my  breast 
And  the  rose  is  the  pink  of  her  dimpled  cheek, 

The  lily,  her  brow  so  fair ; 
Her  dear  blue  eyes  are  the  violets  blest 

And   the   sunshine   her   curlv   soft   hair. 


These  flowers,  dear  babe,  are  thine,  all  thine, 

God  keep  them  so  pure  and  fair 
But  the  bleeding  heart  is  mine  all  mine 

That  would  save  thee  from  all  life's  care. 

— Sophia  Fredericks   Pezzoni. 
Elkhart. 


TODAY  AND  TOMORROW. 

Waves  and  shore  and  sky  all  blended, 

As  a  weary  life  that  ended 
Seeks  beyond  this  world  of  sorrow, 

A  serene  and  bright  tomorrow. 
Where  no  waves  will  ever  dash, 

And  no  wind  will  moaning  crash 
Over  strife  and  roughest  way, 

'Gainst  the  sorrows  of  today. 

Waves  and  shore  and  sky  all  glorious 

As  a  soul  that  now  victorious, 
Has  just  wakened  to  the  light 

Of  God's  love  and  of  the  right, 
To  the  glory  and  the  beauty 

Of  c    life  of  love  and  duty. 
Tho'  the  path  be  strewn  with  sorrow, 

At  the  end  is  God's  tomorrow. 

— Winnifred  Margaret  Way, 
Furnessville. 


ART  AND  ARTISTS. 

Has  the  world  anything  better  to  offer  me  to  store 
away  in  my  memory  to  comfort  a  dark  day  than  a 
knowledge  of  art? 

An  Art  Institute  is  a  delight  forever  with  its  paint 
ings  and  priceless  treasures.  Do  people  ever  stop 
to  think  how  many  of  these  paintings  are  the  work  ot 
artists  who  have  burned  out  heart  and  soul  on  the 
altar  of  their  canvases? 

With  me  there  dwells  a  feeling  of  reverence  for  truly 
good  works  of  art,  whether  from  the  hands  of  those 
still  journeying  on  the  rough  road  of  an  artistic  career, 
or  those  whose  "vanished  hands"  have  left  us  the  best 
they  were  capable  of,  and  whose  aim  was  always  the 
brightest  and  noblest  possible. 

In  many  cities,  in  certain  streets,  in  pleasant  nooks 
and  corners,  so  dear  to  Lhe  artistic  heart,  I  find  the 
artists  at  their  easels. 

They  tell  me  that  often  their  paths  are  beset  with 
many  difficulties  and  discouragments  but  no  struggle, 
no  hard  work  is  too  dear  a  price  to  pay  for  even  a 
measure  of  success. 

Then  again  I  find  the  studios  of  artists  who  are 
ciowned  with  success  who  do  not  relax  any  effort 
but  toil  on  for  sheer  love  of  their  vocation. 

I  recognize  the  fact  that  the  eyes  of  most  people 
are  educated  by  looking  at  pictures,  rather  than  by 
looking  at  nature  and  "they  finally  come  to  see  in 
nature  what  the  painters  have  insisted  was  there." 

An  artist  knows  the  language  of  the  elements,  whose 
master-word,  like  that  of  man,  is  God.  And  paints 
them  in  tones  wild  or  gentle  as  their  own ;  the  stormy 
heavens,  the  passionate  seas,,  the  first  lights  of  morn 
ings,  the  glories  of  departing  sunsets,  the  still  radiance 
of  rising  moons,  are  vassals  to  the  artist's  brush. 

— Estelle   Mildred   Knapp. 
South  Bend. 


LIFE'S  AFTERGLOW. 

When  we  hehold  the  setting  sun 

Send   forth  its   parting  light, 
Amid  its  glory-tinted  clouds 

Flow  beautiful  the  sight. 
When  interblending  red  and  gold 

Into  each  other  flow, 
The   brilliant    combination    makes, 

A  lovely  afterglow. 

So  when  our  lives  have  struggled  through 

Much  false,  ambitious  pride, 
And  selfish  loves,  once  very  sweet, 

Have  all  been  crucified, 
God   shows  unto  each  loving  heart 

A  shining  path  to  go, 
Which  makes  life's  evening  radiant  with 

A  golden  afterglow. 

When  three  score  years  and  ten  are  reached, 

The  fever  heat  of  youth 
Subsides  into  the  quiet  calm     » 

Of  trustful,  restful  truth. 
We  cannot  thank  our  God  enough 

That  we   can  come  to  know, 
Through  sweet  communion  with  Himself, 

This  glorious  afterglow. 

That  we  have  learned  how  valueless 

Earth's   empty   honors   are, 
How  quickly  they  take  wings  and  fly 

Beyond  our  reach  ?.far. 
We  then  cling  closer  to  our  Lord, 

Assured  that  he  will  show 
Us  how  to  keep  the  sunshine  of 

This  Heavenly  afterglow. 

—Anna   Maria   Starr. 
Richmond. 


SONG. 

I  was  laid  low  among  the  reeds : 

And  there  Love  found  me. 
Slow,  slimy  things,  and  water  weeds 

Were  moving  'round  me. 

The  world  passed  by.     I  blamed  it  not. 

Gay  life  hates  sorrow. 
The  joy  it  never  gave  my  lot 

I  would  not  borrow. 

From  it  I  got  my  grievous  bed 

And  wounc   that  killed  me. 
"Why,  sweet"  !  Love  said — and  raised  my  head 

And  kissed  and  thrilled  me. 

His  sun-like  eyes  drank  all  my  gloom 

And  my  distresses. 
Ah.  he  to  whom  this  Love  doth  com: 

All  things  possesses! 

— Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood. 

Chicago. 


HOMEWARD. 


I  m  going  home,  to  my  old  home  again, 
Where  anxious  loved  ones  daily  watch  and  wait, 
And  leaning  o'er  the  old  familiar  gate 
Look   for  my  coming  down  the  shady  lane, 
And  disappointed,  watch  and  wait  in  vain, 
I'm  going  home. 

I'm  going  home  to  where  the  apple  blooms 
Waft  out  delicious  odors  on  the  breeze  ; 
Wrhere  robins  sing  among  the  old,  oak  trees ; 
And   lilies   waste   the   dreamiest   perfumes, 
That  float  in  all  the  dim,  old-fashioned  rooms; 
I'm  going  home. 

T'm  going  home  where  Time  has  glided  by 
All  unremembered  down  the  flight  of  years, 
And   left   his   track    unstained   by   storms   of  tears 
Where  holv  love  beams  from  a  mother's  eye, 
And  lights  a  way-worn  wanderer's  gloomy  sky; 
I'm  going  home. 

I'm  going  home  to  quiet  and  sweet  peace, 

Where   golden   sunbeams   gild  the   summer  airs; 
And  cast  aside  life's  conquest  and  its  cares; 
And  bid  the  world  good-by,  with  sweet  surcease 
Of  all  ambitious  dreaming's  mad  increase  ; 
I'm  going  home. 

I'm  £oing  home  and  rest  forever  there, 

With  peaceful  faces  wreathed  in  loving  smiles; 
Wrhere  cheating  Time  paints  me  no  afterwhiles, 
And  tints  with  silver  hues  the  sunny  hair^ 
Restore  my  soul  with  restful  dreams  so  fair; 
I'm  going  home. 

— Idael  Makeever. 

Valparaiso. 


A  LITTLE  NEST. 

A  little  nest  :— 

Though  rudely  built  and  woefully  poor 
A  little  window,  a  little  door, 
A  little   cot  beside   the  wall 
Where  caressing  moonbeams  fall. 

A  little  nest  :— 

Hallowed  with  nativity's  tie 
A  little  of  life  and  then  to  die, 
A  little  wife,  a  little  child 
And  over  all,  the  west  wind  wild. 

A  little  nest  :— 

Treasured  in  every  being  s  heart 
Something  beautiful,  living  and  apart, 
A  little  song,  a  little  play 
And  then  the  shadows  close  the  day. 

—Pearl  Dutchess  Westfall, 
Spencer. 


THE  OLD  WOOD  PILE. 

One  thing  I  used  to  hate  to  do,  it  fairly  made  me  shake, 
The  blessed  live-long  day  clear  thro',  I'd  feel  so  sore 
and  ache — 

Choppin'  wood  ! 

That  old  woodpile  I  clearly  see — it's  vision  is  a  joy, 
Just  once  again   I'd  like  to  be  a  big  green  awkward 
boy — 

Choppin'  wood ! 

I  used  to  hear  my  father  call — it  almos'  made  me  sick, 
An'  then  I'd  let  that  old  ax  fall— you  know  it  was  a 
trick — 

Choppin'  wood ! 

My  mother's  voice  I  too  would  hear  for  she  had  made 

a  rule, 
To  tell  her  Johnny  boy  so  dear  when  he  got  home  from 

school — 

"Chop  some  wood !" 

About  that  time  I'd  get  real  mean— and  awful  lazy  too, 
As  then  it  always  seem  I  never  would  get  through — 
Choppin'  wood ! 

I'd  stop  an'  rest  a  little  while  and  wipe  away  the  sweat 
Then  Pa'd  stan'  'roun'  an'  smile— that  made  me  mad 
you  bet — 

Choppin'  wood! 

That  ole  ax  han'l  I'd  then  grip  and  swing  it  tword  the 

skv 
Then  off  you  know  would  fly  a  chip,  and  hit  me  in  the 

eye — 

Choppin'  wood! 

In  fancy  now  since  I've  grown  old,  I  live  again  in  boy 
hood  years 

An'  hear  my  father  when  he'd  scold,  and  maybe  1 
he'd  box  my  ears — 

For  not  choppin   wood  ! 

—Barbara  Alice  Shackle. 
Morristown. 


THANKSGIVING  AND  PRAYER. 
I. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  joyful  sowing  time, 
When  balmy  south  winds  wander  in  the  spring 
With  kisses  warm  for  every  growing  thing 
That  glads  the  world  with  hints  of  blossoming ; 

For  all  earth's  beauty,  simple  or  sublime ; 

For  limpid  streams  that  run  in  rippling  rhyme, 
And  sweet  delight  to  hills  and  valleys  bring ; 
For  humming  bees  and  happy  birds  that  sing 

And  nest  in  coverts  where  the  wild  vines  climi). 

And  woodland  voices  with  the  wind-harps  chime  ; 
For  wondrous  glory  of  the  summer  skies, 

And  wealth  ol  clouds  distilling  genial  showers 

That  thrill  with  vigor  languid  trees  and  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  sweetens  all  the  ways  of  life  ; 

For  hearts  that  love  through  all  earth's  bitter  strife, 
And  eyes  that  smile  when  lips'  young  laughter  dies. 

Dear  Lord,  let  truth's  persuasive,  still,  small  voice 

The  sinful  quicken  till  their  souls  rejoice ; 
Thrice  multiply  the  wisdom  of  the  wise 
And  temper  winds  to  human  butterflies. 

ii. 

Great  Giver  of  the  bounteous  harvest  day, 
God  of  the  seed  and  sower,  kindly  hear 
The  hymns  Thy  children  carol  year  by  year, 

Sincere,  glad  offerings  of  prayer  and  praise, 

And  let  us  walk  with  Thee  and  learn  Thy  ways. 

To  those  who  sorrow  lead  us  softly  near 
«    With  dew-like  words  that  vivify  and  cheer. 

In  hearts  that  hunger  through  the  world  and  wait 

For  human  love  and  sympathy  outside  the  gate 
Unfed  and  dying,  let  Thy  mercy  shine 

And  heal  their  hurts  with  Balm  of  Gilead. 

Guard  helpless  little  ones  who  weep  and  pine. 

For  mothers  early  coffined  with  the  dead  ; 

Where  e'er  their  hapless,  tiny  feet  may  tread, 

Be  they  by  guardian  angels  safely  led, 
Embosomed  in  Thy  tenderness  divine. 

Josinah  VanMatre  Hickman  Koons. 

Muncie. 


SOMEBODY. 

Somebody's  cheeks  are  burning 

With  the  fire  of  a  feverish  heat, 
Somebody's  lips   are  yearning. 

For  the  kiss  of  an  angel,  sweet. 
Somebody  can  be  the  good  angel, 

That  comforts  the  sorrowing  soul, 
Some  one  can  breathe  just  a  whisper, 

That  will  make  a  poor  sufferer  whole. 

Somebody's  brow  is  throbbing, 

Somebody's  hand  is  cold, 
Somebody's  heart  is  aching, 

Somebody  is  growing  old. 
Somebody's  voice  is  feeble, 

Somebody's  steps  are  slow, 
Somebody's  eyes  are  dimming, 
For  the  lights  are  burning  low. 

I  know  a  nice  little  somebody, 

That  climbs  upon  somebody's  knee, 
And  lovingly  say  to  somebody! 

"Have  you  dot  any  tisses  for  me?" 
Some   little  body  is  longing, 

The  sunlight  of  heaven  to  see, 
And  some  little  body  is  waiting, 

For  a  smile  of  affection  from  me. 

Somebody,  I  know  of,  is  happy, 

For    somebody   came,   one   day. 
And  placed  in  her  thin  hand  a  paper, 

That  drove  the  old  mortgage  away. 
Somebody  smiles,  when  she  kisses 

Her  own  little  darlings    three, 
And  somebody  blesses  somebody, 

Are  those  blessings  for  you  and  me? 

Somebody  else  is  sitting 

In  a  cottage  by  a  stream; 
Watching  the  flight  of  the  shadows, 

And  the  dawn  of  the  morning's  gleam. 
In  that  cottage  are  four  little  orphans, 

Surrounding  a  poor  widow's  knee, 
And  their  sad,  hungry  eyes  are  imploring 

A  brotherly  kindness  from  me. 

Someone  else  should  be  happy, 

Somebody  else  should  be  ^rue, 
Bask   in  the  sunshine  of  plenty, 

Even  as  me  and  you. 
Some  one  is  earnestly  trusting 

That  some  one  is  willing  to  be 
A  friend  in  the  midnight  of  sorrow, 

That  friend  should  be  you  or  me. 

Charles  Asbury  Robinson. 


Greenfield. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "DOWN  ON  THE  WABASH." 

Used  to  be  so  quiet,  and  so  sorter  peaceful; 

Nothin'  broke  the  silence,  but  the  wind  among  the  corn; 
Jest  a  sobbin'  low,  like  the  voice  of  lovers  partin/ 

Down  on  the  Wabash,  the  place  where  I  was  born. 

It's  powerful  curious,  aint  it?       How  our  tho'ts  '11  wander  backard 

And  we'll  clean  fergit  the  present,  when  we  think  uv  what  has  bin 

And,   altho'   we're   gray  and   wrinkled;    we're  no   longer  men   and 

wimmen, 

Fur  we've  traveled   back  to  childhood,  and  are  boys  and  girls 
agin. 

Now  I  shet  my  eyes.  It's  summer!  The  bumble  bee  is  hummin', 
And  gatherin'  loads  of  honey,  from  the  blossoms  'mong  the  corn. 

I  can  see  the  crows  fly  over.  I  can  hear  a  partridge  drummin,' 
And,  mellered  by  the  distance,  a  fur  off  dinner  horn. 

The  sparks  fly  up  the  chimbly.     The  shadders  dance  and  flicker. 

The  smoke  goes  soarin'  uppards,  and  floats  off  in  purple  rings; 
The  girls  out  in  the  kitchen,  poke  each  other's  ribs  and  snicker; 

It's  evenin'  and  Ham  Hollingsworth  tunes  up  his  fiddle  strings. 

Ah!  the  sound  of  that  old  fiddle  thro'  my  memory  is  ringin', 
And  I  hear  the  noisy  footsteps,  keepin'  time  upon  the  floor; 

And  around  the  dear  old  hearthstone,   my   heartstrings    still    are 

clingin,' 
Tho'  the  firelight,  and  the  dancers,  are  gone  forever  more. 

And  through  the  sashless  winders,  the  mournful  wind  is  sighin,' 
A  lonesome  owl  is  hootin'  in  the  old  dead  ellum  tree. 

The  foxes  dig  their  holes,  and  at  night  the  bats  go  flyin,' 

In  and  out  among  the  ruins  where  the  old  home  used  to  be. 

But  the  same  old  yaller  moonlight,  sparkles  out  there  on  the  river; 

And  smiles  the  same,  and  beckons,  as  it  dances  on  the  wave; 
The  same  old  hills  behind  it;  The  same  old  sky  bends  over; 

But  the  homestead  is  a  ghost  now,  and  silent  as  the  grave. 

—Alice  D.   0.  Greenwood. 
Newport. 


LUCREZIA. 

I  reach  for  her  and  feel  her  gone.  Oh,  to  reach  for  her  and  feel 
her  gone!  In  the  dense  blot  of  darkness,  vainly  my  lips  seek  for 
that  warm  soft  face, — her  spirit-pure  face,  in  its  frame  of  jet-black 
hair.  Oh,  so  sweet!  The  forehead!  In  size,  just  ample  enough  to 
plant  a  kiss  upon;  and  only  so  high,  this  forehead,  that  when  my 
lips  were  at  its  coronal,  my  brow  knew  the  softness  of  LQC  hair. 
Oh,  that  hair!  That  hair  of  deepest  jet,  how  it  sparkled  with 
blackness.  How  the  light,  bursting  on  it,  was  transmuted  into  gloss, 
like  the  moonlight  in  a  ripple.  Her  hair  was  not  sleek,  as  the  black 
bird  wears  its  garb;  but  drooping  very  loosely,  like  the  weeping  wil 
low  boughs.  Lucrezia's  hair  hung  in  billows. — whole  billows  of 
hair.  Billows!  And  out  of  these  billows,  two  eyes.  Those  eyes! 
Those  lambent,  those  haloed,  those  heavenly  orbs;  emblozonries  of 
feeling,  prismatically  colored:  palaces  of  emotion,  with  love  couch- 
ant  at  each  window!  How  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed  as  1 
gazed  into  those  eyes — Lucrezia's  eyes;  not  like  sepulchral  lamps, 
burning  low,  but  glowing  with  love's  gentle  lambencies;  lit  up  with 
a  spark  from  that  fire  of  fires.  How  they  lavished  their  treasure 
upon  me:  poured  wine  upon  my  spirit.  But — gone! 

The  heavenly  beauty  of  her  face. — this  was  Love's  masterpiece,  the 
triumph  of  all  creation.  Hers  was  not  a  face  of  serpentining  beauty, 
emblazoned  with  color,  but  a  face,— oh.  so  very,  very  sweet.  The 
sparkling  black  hair  left  its  shadow  upon  her  skin,  and  gave  it  the 
darkness  of  deep  waters.  Lucrezia's  skin  would  have  been  very 
dark,  had  not  the  glow  of  tumultous  feeling  transmuted  it  with 
color  and  lighted  it  with  a  radiance  from  within.  'Twas  a  delicate 
beauty  that  gave  joy  to  my  sense;  a  twilight  face,  dark  but  glow 
ing.  Her  whole  soul  was  in  her  face,  when  she  turned  it  towards 
me;  and  wherever  it  was  turned  it  brought  her  heart. 

I  am  haunted  with  the  vision  of  a  soul  enwrapped  in  a  face;  a 
roul  beaming  forth  from  two  eyes — Lucrezia's  eyes — framed  in  whole 
billows  of  jet-black  hair.  This  image  moves  perennially  upon  the 
waste  of  my  dreams,  like  the  spirit  of  God  moving  upon  the  face 
of  the  waters.  Somtimes  I  hear  the  intonation,  the  soft  intonation, 
of  Lucrezia's  voice  behind  me.  and  feel  her  breath,  the  breath  of 
hyacinth,  upon  my  neck,  and  her  gentle  hand  upon  my  cheek.  Some 
times  she  beams  upon  me  with  those  eyes.  Those  eyes!  And  her 
slender  figure  steals  upon  my  dreams,  enveloped  all  about  with  a 
nimbus,  a  glory;  a  tiara  of  splendor  upon  her  brow;  and  gleaming 
from  her  countenance  an  aureola  of  love-light.  Which  light,  oh 
God.  must  illuminate  for  me  my  narrow  grave. 

—Clarence  Wilbur  Miller. 
Frankfort. 


CHRISTMAS  JOYS. 

The  star  that  shone  o'er  Palestine, 

In  Herod's  ancient  day, 
Still  to  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 

As  brightly  points  the  way, 

And  angels  still  proclaim  with  joy, 

The  glory  of  His  birth, 
And    herald    from    the    riven    sky^ 

"Good-will,  and  peace  on  earth." 

The  song  that  filled  the  sky  that  night,  • 

Still  floats  upon  the  air, 
And    thrills    us   with    the    melody, 

It  brought  to  shepherds  there. 

And  shall  that  blessed  Star  of  stars, 

Illume  my  heart  anew? 
Or  will  more  earthly  scenes  deflect, 

Its  brightness  from  my  view? 

And  as  His  herald  comes     again, 

Will  you  receive\this  King? 
And  like  the  Magi,  joyfully, 

Your  homage  to  Him  bring  t 

And  will  that  first  grand  Christmas  hymn, 

Attune  our  souls  to  praise, 
And  with  the  harpers  of  the  sky, 

Our  thankful  anthems  raise? 

Yes,  to  our  hearts  this  Prince  of  Peace, 

Shall  be  a  welcome  guest, 
And  in  our  lives  His  guiding  hand, 

Will  be  made  manifest. 

And  we  will  love  Him  more  and  more, 

For  His  atoning  grace, 
Until  we  know  as  we  are  known, 

And  see  Him  face  to  face.  -pnnas 

—Eugene    G.    Regennas. 

Hope. 


A   LITTLE   MORE   SUNSHINE. 

In  the  grand  economy  of  Nature,  there  is  always  more  of  the  beau 
tiful  than  of  the  disagreeable;  more  of  pleasure  than  of  pain;  more 
of  the  warblings  of  birds  than  the  bellowings  of  thunders;  more 
of  fruitful,  flowery  hills  and  fields  than  of  arid  wastes  or  rocky  deso 
lation;  more  of  things  useful  than  of  things  baneful;  more  of  light 
than  of  darkness,  more  of  life  than  of  death. 

Kindness,  pity,  charity  and  love  are  the  essentials  of  revealed 
religion.  Our  modern  civilization,  in  all  its  forms  of  worship,  recog 
nizes  the  eternal  love  of  the  Godhead.  The  Sun  of  Righteousness 
is  ever  rising,  sending  healing  and  blessing  and  peace  upon  all  that 
belip.ve 

The  extent  of  the  recognition  of  this  principle  of  universal  love 
in  a  community  is  a  measure  of  its  progress,  its  advancement  beyond 
the  heathen  world.  With  them  the  two  principles  of  good  and  evil 
are  ever  in  conflict.  Because  the  evil  is  feared,  it  must  be  propiti 
ated  by  sacrifices,  and  in  many  and  various  ways.  With  us,  the 
conflict  is  recognized;  but  the  desire  for  the  good  is  greater  than 
the  fear  of  the  evil.  The  result  is  the  multiplication  of  all  forms 
of  benevolence  for  the  relief  of  sickness  and  suffering  and  want. 
The  lightnings  of  Sinai  are  less  potent  than  the  simple  statements 
of  the  Beatitudes.  The  wish  to  reform  a  criminal  is,  in  many  cases, 
greater  than  the  desire  to  punish  him.  He  is  imprisoned,  but  ne 
is  taught  to  read  right,  to  live  right,  to  work  right.  If  failure  does 
frequently  follow  these  efforts,  the  intention,  nevertheless,  is  good, 
and  we  can  not  do  otherwise  than  give  it  praise. 

And  in  all  our  intercourse  with  our  fellowmen,  kindness  and 
patience  are  far  more  effectual  in  producing  desired  results  than 
rudeness  and  surliness.  The  sunshine  is  far  more  potent  than  the 
storm. 

In  the  schoolroom,  that  discipline  which  is  born  of  sunbeams  is 
better,  is  more  effectual,  is  more  commendable,  than  that  which  is 
the  result  of  brutal  force,  either  of  will  or  muscle. 

A  little  more  sunshine — few  rules,  much  heart,  few  clouds,  much 
of  the  suaviter  in  modo  in  front,  with  the  fortiter  in  re  in  reserve — 
is  what  we  want  in  our  school-rooms. 

There  are  teachers  who  can  govern  with  the  full  bla.ze  of  the  noon 
sunshine.  Ivy  surrounds  them;  blessings  attend  their  footsteps. 
They  are  welcomed  when  they  come,  admired  and  respected  when 
they  go.  With  them  and  by  them  is  continual  sunshine,  and  teaching 
and  studying  alike  become  pleasures  that  are  long  remembered. 

—David  Marion  Geeting. 
Greensburs. 


10 


OUR    SOLDIERS'    GRAVE. 

Sleep,  heroes,  slumber  sweet,  no  bugle's  note  or  cannon's  roar, 
No  rude  alarm  shall  wake  thee,  half  rested  from  thy  bed. 

No  weary  march,  no  sentinel's  watch  with  pitiless  storms  upon  thee; 
No  unvoiced  longings  for  thy  home — no  prison  life  to  dread, 

But  rest,  peaceful   rest  in   honored  graves,  thy  country  guard  so 
tenderly. 

Sleep,  heroes,  sleep,  the  restless  years  that  come  and  go, 
May  see  proud   nations   crumble  and  glorious  kingdoms  fall, 

Man's  thought  eclipse  the  past,  this  great  land  peopled  vast, 
In  life's  quick  growth,  may  cease  to  pause  and  fondly  gather  all 

The  glory  of  historic  days,  e'en  these  may  fail  at  last 
To  stir  the  fire  of  grateful  love,  as  in  the  olden  time. 

But  while  the  eagle  on  free  wing  mounts  to  the  upper  sky, 

While  the  stars  in  silent  grandeur  roll,  held  by  hand  secure, 
While  the  stars  and  stripes  o'er  freemen  wave,  and  floating  proud 

and  high, 

The  meanest  subject  protection  hath  in  its  ample  folds  so  sure, 
So  long  will  these,  oh  humble  mounds,  though  all  things  wear  a 

change, 

Be  thy  people's  sacred  trust — and  bending  o'er  each  lowly  grave 
With  reverent  step  and  gentlest  air  in  the  years  that  lie  before. 

We  will  teach  our  youth  to  come,  while  tenderly  we  tell  why  gave 
Those  brave,  true  hearts  their  richest  blood,  and  when  the  story's 
o'er 

We'll  proudly  point  to  that  blood-bought  nag 
In  mid-air  floating,  'neath  a  calm  and  beauteous  sky, 

Like  a  guarding  spirit  watching,  while  its  defenders  sleep — 
Bid  them  by  this  precious  dead  learn  how  to  live  and  nobly  die. 

Oh,  music,  lowly  breathe,  wail   your  saddest  dirge. 
And  blow,  oh,  south  wind,   sweetest,  softest  sigh; 

And  take  your  garlands,   woman  true,   ever   so   glad  to  bear 
Sweetest  frangrance  to  the  tomb — 'tis  meet  that  they  should  be 

The  tribute  of  your  faithful  love  to  those  whose  angel  oft  ye  were. 

—Helen  Mar  Fawcett. 

New  Albany. 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND. 
(Dedicated  to  E.  J.  H.) 

Oh,  Eddie,  Eddie,  friend  of  mine 
And  friend  of  all  who  meet  you, 

Today,  as  in  the  "Auld  Lang  Syne," 
Right  heartily  I  greet  you. 

Full  twenty  years  have  floated  down 

The  rapid  stream  of  ages 
Since  we  two  went  from  town  to  town 

And  trod  the  mimic  stages. 

And  now  and  then  when  times  were  good 
Came  fame  and  pelf  together, 

And  now  and  then  Dame  Fortune  would 
Send  days  of  stormy  weather. 

But  if  we  rode  or  if  we  walked 
The  skies  were  bright  above  us, 

The  heroines  smiled,  the  soubrettes  talked, 
The  wenches  still  would  love  us. 

Sam  Bolter  with  his  turnip  feast 

Was  not  the  worst  of  fellows, 
With  "Millions  in  it"   at  the  least 

As  old  Mulberry  Sellers. 

Now  while  your  Thespian  days  are  past 

I  still  make  mimic  faces ; 
The  Manager  of  All  has  casi 

Us  for  our  different  places. 

And  when  we  leave  our  work  and  play, 

Our  love  and  tears  and  laughter— 
Upon  some  perfect,  golden  day 
May  we  two  meet  hereafter. 

Walter  Newton  Hammett. 

New  Harmony. 


CHRISTMAS  STORIES. 

Now  there  was  old  Hunky  Ball,  a  famous  character  of  the  Wabash 
country  who  claimed  that  this  thing  of  feeling  comfortable  was 
merely  a  matter  of  imagination  after  all.  On  a  Christmas  many 
years  ago  Hunky  went  to  the  county  seat  on  his  annual  holiday 
outing.  He  sported  no  large  variety  of  clothes,  to  be  sure.  Times 
had  been  hard  with  him.  The  price  of  corn  husking  had  been 
reduced  about  ten  per  cent,  there  wasn't  much  cord  wood  to  chop, 
and  naturally  his  income  had  been  reduced.  But  Hunky  had  an  idea 
that  every  true  patriot  should  celebrate  Christmas,  and  when  he 
arrived  at  the  county  seat  he  had,  beside  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  red 
flannel  shirt,  85  cents  in  the  pockets  of  his  jeans.  Hunky  was  soon 
in  the  center  of  the  mad  whirl,  spending  generously  of  his  means 
and  drinking  the  fiery  applejack  of  that  district. 

Along  about  midnight  of  Christmas  a  party  returning  from  a 
fiance,  fell  over  the  prostrate  form  of  a  man  in  the  big  road.  It  was 
Hunky.  Tired  nature  and  applejack  had  done  their  work,  and 
Hunky  lay  prone  on  his  back,  fast  frozen  to  the  ground.  They 
believed  him  dead,  but  he  wasn't;  in  fact  he  wasn't  even  asleep. 
He  had  fallen  asleep,  true  enough,  and  when,  on  awakening,  he 
found  himself  frozen  to  the  ground  he  just  lay  still  and  waited 
the  coming  of  another  day.  When  the  dance  party  attempted  to 
assist  Hunky  he  protested,  saying: 

"Gentlemen,  just  go  and  'tend  to  you'  own  business.  I'm  a  po' 
man  an'  never  ha'med  eny  o'  you.  I  need  this  here  shirt;  it's  all 
I  got,  an'  times  is  ha'd.  Do  you  'spose  I'm  gwine  to  hev  the  back 
o'  that  last  shirt  split  by  bein'  tore  f'om  the  groun'?  No,  gents, 
I'm  waitin'  fer  the  mornin'  thaw;  so  you  go  on  an'  'tend  to  yo' 
business,  an'  I'll  'tend  to  this  here  shirt  an'  try  to  be  comf'table 
an'  contented." 

Ever  since  I  run  across  this  little  episode  in  the  life  of  Hunky 
Ball  I've  been  certain  that  heat  or  cold  was  purely  a  matter  of  the 
imagination. 

And  the  Christmas  tree  is  disappearing,  too,  they  tell  me;  not. 
because  it  was  an  unpopular  method  of  entertainment,  but  there 
were  so  many  Santa  Clauses  burned  and  buried  that  the  demand 
finally  exceeded  the  supply,  and  the  Christmas  tree  was  forced  to 
go  out  of  business. 

Out  West,  as  we  still  call  that  country  beyond  the  Missouri,  there 
was  a  bad  man  or  two  in  every  town  twenty  to  thirty  years  ago. 
Occasionally  the  good  people  arose  en  masse  and  killed  a  few  dozen 
bad  men;  but  it  always  entailed  more  or  less  expense,  and  some 
times  even  hard  feelings  would  be  engendered  by  the  surviving 
relatives  of  the  dead  man  takingexceptions  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  deceased  had  been  removed. 

So  an  innovation  was  introduced.    Whenever  a  town  had  a  baa 
man  he  was  called  upon  by  a  committee  of  distinguished  citizens 
about  December   20th  and  solicited  to  act  as   Santa  Glaus  at  th 
Christmas   tree   entertainment.     Of   course  he  accepted   and 
another  committee,  on  Christmas  Eve,  costumed  him  in  about  W 
layers  of  cotton  batting,  beautiful  spangles,  tiny  bells  and  a  long 
beard.     Then  they  turned  him  loose  among  the  presents  and 
candles,  and  by  10  p.  m.  the  bad  man  had  been  successfully  removed 
with  no  expense  except  a  slightly  soiled  carpet.  _Carf  Brayfieldi 

Charlestown. 


THE  TESTING  OF  OUR  BARK. 

The  day  is  dawning  o'er  the  eastern  hills; 

And  with  the  freshness  of  the  dew  drenched  flowers, 
Our  sprightly  souls  awake  in  morning  hours 

To  venture  on  life's  sea  with  hope  that  fills 

Our  youthful  breast,  leaping  as  flames,  and  thrills 
Us  with  auspicious  views  of  life  that  towers 
In  splendor;  hemmed  by  no  supernal  powers, 

But  free  as  water  in  the  sedgeless  rills. 

Anxiously  then  down  to  the  peaceful  shore, 
(While  Heaven's  moistening  kisses  freely  fall) 
Where  silvery  wavelets  lip  the  sand  levee, 

We  go  as  millions  that  have  gone  before, 

Feeling,  with  sanguine  temperament  that  all 
Is  prosperous,  and  launch  our  barks  at  sea. 

At  noon  no  longer  blows  the  valued  gales 

That  sent  us  onward  in  our  prosperous  way, 
But  blackened  tempest's  unrelenting  sway 

Swoops  on  our  bark  and  rends  the  bellied  sails; 

And  in  a  peeling  thunder  scoffs  and  rails 
That  we  have  still  withal  one  lonely  ray 
Of  hope,  and  virulently  seems  to  say: 

"  'Tis  of  no  use,  your  hopeful  voyage  fails." 

Full  many  at  the  verge  of  honest  fame, 

Ere  half  their  journey  oer  life's  sea  is  sped, 
Are  gulped  in  storms  and  find  a  low  abode, 

There  to  remain  in   everlasting  shame. 

And  now  that  doom  seems  sure  for  us  when  led 

And  basked  e'en  in  the  favor  of  our  God. 

'Tis  evening— The  frightful  storms  are  o'er, 
The  western  skies  are  gloriously  dight 
With  fleecy  clouds  and  golden  liveries  bright; 

And  'neath  the  sinking  sun's  low  level  glore 

Our  paths  are  marked  by  glistening  waves  before 
To  shining  shores  that  dazzle  in  the  sight 
And  dance  with  pure  Elysian  delight 

Where  we'll  ere  while  with  welcome  step  ashore. 

How  filled  our  souls  when  evening  shades  grow  dim, 
To  know  our  bark  hath  o'er  a  dangerous  sea 
Been  safely  moored;  and  though  laborious 

Hath  been  the  voyage,  our  constancy  and  vim 
Hath  made  us  blessed,  and  senses  fit  to  see 

The  grandeur  of  the  sunset  glorious. 
Daleville.  claud  Caesar  Letter' 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

Summer  comes,  and  the  people  who  have  been  the  life  of  the 
city's  society  during  the  winter  scatter  themselves  among  the 
various  summer  resorts.  What  do  they  go  away  for?  Certainly 
not  for  complete  rest  and  recreation,  if  we  may  judge  from  what 
a  woman  of  fashion  said  the  other  day.  Asked  if  she  were  going 
to  a  summer  place  she  had  visited  for  several  seasons,  she  replied: 
"No;  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be  much  frequented  this  year,  and  I 
want  to  go  where  the  people  are."  This  seems  to  be  the  sentiment 
of  most  society  people.  Do  society  people  get  the  recuperation  they 
need  after  a  season's  social  dissipation  in  the  city  from  a  season's 
social  dissipation  at  a  crowded  resort?  They  may  gain  physical 
rest,  but  they  can  not  conserve  energy  and  build  themselves  up 
mentally  with  their  minds  continually  distracted  from  serious 
thought  by  the  gay  life  with  which  they  are  surrounded.  If  the 
two  seasons  did  not  overlap,  if  people  had  time  to  themselves 
between  seasons,  there  would  be  less  need  for  absolute  summer 
rest. 

There  is  a  power  to  be  gained  from  the  independent  workings  of 
one's  mind  in  solitude  that  can  be  had  in  no  other  way. 

Nay,   I  think 

Merely    to  bask   and   ripen   is   sometimes 

The  student's  wiser  business, 

Lowell  says;  and  not  only  the  student's  but  every  busy  person's. 
De  Senancour  has  said:  "He  that  lives  in  the  world  lives  in  one 
time;  he;  that  lives  in  solitude  lives  in  all  times."  It  is  no  wonder 
that  certain  classes  of  people  get  the  reputation  of  being  vapid, 
when  their  members  have  and  want  no  time  to  themselvs.  Of 
course,  summer  resorts  have  their  proper  use,  but  when  one  is 
selecting  a  place  for  an  outing,  why  not  seek  a  place  of  retirement? 
The  crowded  resort  is  not  for  one  satiated  with  social  life.  Society 
is  necessary,  but  so  is  solitude. 

Society  needs  to  have  the  equilibrium  of  its  members  restored  by 
a  season  each  year  of  undisturbed  repose.  When  they  get  this 
repose  their  perspective  will  be  corrected,  and  there  will  be  less 
occasion  for  the  slurs  of  those  who  are  ever  too  ready  to  criticise 
persons  in  conspicuous  stations. 

—William  Allen  Wood. 

Indianapolis. 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

See  the  little  snow-flakes  flying 

All  around  our  home  to-night 
While  the  north  wind  keeps  a-sighing 

O'er  a  world  all  robed  in  white. 

Little  snow-flakes,  how  they  glisten ! 

By  my  window  in  the  light- 
Tiny  snow-flakes,  clear  as  crystals, 

Shining  like  the  diamonds  bright. 

How  the  little  snow-flakes  scamper 

As  the  wind  comes  whirling  by- 
How  they  dance  in  merry  fashion 
Though  the  winds  do  moan  and  sigh. 

Little  snow-flakes,  how  like  fairies, 
Wing  their  way  from  worlds  above, 

Bringing  with  them  from  their  palaces 
Bright  and  hap  w  words  of  love. 

May  our  lives  be  like  the  snow-flakes, 
Just  as  pure  and  just  as  bright 

Ever  happy,  ever  shining, 

Through  the  long  and  dreary  night. 

— DeWitte  Clinton  Stroup. 

"River. 


BEHOLD,  I  STAND  AT  THE  DOOR  AND  KNOCK. 

Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock, 

The  door  long  closed  by  sin; 
I'm  weary  with  waiting,  and  sfill  I  watch, 

Oh,  may  I  not  enter  in? 

I've  knocked  and  I've  waited — 'tis  deep  in  the  night, 

My  locks  with  its  drops  are  wet; 
My  garments  are  dripping  with  chilling  dew, 

And,  Soul  I  am  waiting  yet! 

But  the  night  of  my  waiting  is  nearly  past, 
As  I  knocked  at  the  door  of  your  heart; 

I  stand  and  I  knock,  and  I  knock  again, 
I  stand,  and  must  soon  depart! 

Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock, 

You  move  almost  to  the  door; 
Take  down  the  barrier,  sinful  soul, 

For  I  pass  this  way  no  more. 

Tis  the  voice  of  Love  that  calls  to  you, 
'Tis  a  Friend,  O  sinner!  who  speaks; 

The  knocking  you  hear  is  the  knock  cf  love, 
'Tis  the  good  of  your  life  it  seeks. 

By  the  journey  I've  taken,  unbar  the  door! 

By  the  dew  and  the  night  so  drear! 
Hear,  while  I  call  to  you  tonight, 

Open  while  I  am  near! 

These  locks  that  are  wet  with  the  drops  of  night, 

That  are  wet  and  dank  with  dew; 
Hang  over  the  pale  disfigurements, 

Of  a  brow  that  was  torn  for  you. 

These  feet  that  stand  without  and  wait 

To  pass  thru  the  door  to  you. 
Are  the  feet  that  bore  me  to  agony; 

They're  the  feet  that  the  nails  passed  thru. 

These  hands  that  knock  at  your  hard  heart's  door, 
That  have  knocked,  and  knocked  again, 

Within  each  palm  as  I  reach  them  out, 
Still  bear  the  marks  of  pain. 

Beneath  my  raiment  all  damp  and  cold. 

Oh,  am  I  still  denied? 
Near  to  my  beating  heart  of  love, 

Is  the  rent  in  my  pierced  side. 

Oh,  by  these  scars  and  the  mighty  love 

I  bear  for  the  like  of  you, 
Open  the  door  and  I'll  come  in 

From  the  night-damps  and  t 


Liberty. 


, 


NATURE'S  PALACE. 

In    the   blue,   hazy    distance    the    woods   may    be    seen 
All  painted  by  Nature  a  beautiful  green, 
Above  it  the  clouds,  like  gray  ships  and  canoes, 
Are  crossing  the  sea  of  cerulean  hues. 

That  is  Nature's  fair  palace  whose  dome  is  the  sky, 
Where  at  night  stars  (like  candles)  "are  shining  so  high;" 
The  pillars  and  columns  are  tall,  stately  trees, 
On  which  hang  the  green  curtains  that  swing  in  the  breeze 

The  builders  are  raindrops  and  sunlight)  and  air, 
With  the  superintending  of  God's  mighty  care — 
God  created  the  earth  "and  the  fulness  thereof," 
As  well  as  the  bright,  starry  region  above. 

In  the  woods  fragrant  flowers,  of  many  a  hue, 

(Such  as  violet,  white,  yellow,  purple,  and  blue) 

May  be  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  murmuring  rills 

That  are  formed  by  the  fountains  (or  springs)  on  the  hills. 

The  musical  strains  from  the  throat  of  each  bird 

Are  about  as  entrancing  as  ear  ever  heard; 

The  song  of  the  sparrow,  the  finch's  sweet  voice 

And  the  mock-bird's  strange  medley  make  Nature  rejoice. 

"Nature's  Palace"  suggests  pleasant  thoughts  to  the  mind1 
Here  is  one:   If  on  earth  such  an  Eden  we  find, 
What  a  beautiful  place  must  that  be  "over  there"— 
The  place  our  dear  Savior  has  gone  to  prepare. 

And  if  God  in  his  wisdom  sees  fit  to  bestow 
Such  care  on  the  perishing  things  here  below, 
He  surely  will  care  for  the  purified  soul 
That  will  live  "while  the  years  of  eternity  roll." 

—Charles  Willard  McClintic. 
Elkhart. 


DE  WATEHMILLYUN  TIME. 

De   watermillyun   time   am   hea', 

De  sweetest  time  ob  all  the  yea', 

An'  1  said  to  'Riah,  "Don'  you  see' 

Dars  a  good  time  hea'  for  you  and  me? 
Kase  ober  in  de  co'nfield  cross  de  road. 
Dah  am  millyuns  growin'  by  de  wagon  load.'* 

I  said  to  'Riah— Poo'  Sam  in  bed— 

"Come  to  de  co'nfield  back  ob  de  shed, 

Take  along  wif  yo'  dat  coffee  sack 

An'  jes  wait  dar  till  I  cum  back, 
Kase  ober  in  de  co'nfield  cross  de  road 
Dar's  millyuns  growin'  by  de  wagon  load." 

Den  'Riah  Jonsing  jes  nod  her  head, 

An'  took  de  sack  a.i'  started  fo'  de  shed, 

Den  I  look  an'  listen — no  soun'  I  catch. 

Den  slowly  I  creep  to  de  millyun  patch, 
Kase  I  know'd  in  de  co'nfield  cross  de  road 
Dahs  millyuns  growin'  by  de  wagon  load. 

I  went  fru  de  co'n  till  I  cum  to  de  vine, 

An'  dah  laid  de  millyuns,  yum,  how  fine; 

I  thumped  a  big  millyun,  thud!   thud!  thud! 

An'  I  knowed  his  meat  was  red  as  blood. 
Yes,  sah;  down  in  dat  co'nfield  cross  de  road, 
Dahs  millyuns  by  de  wagon  load. 

I   pulled   dat   millyun.      I   creep   fru    do   co'n; 
I  was  very  still   '  bout  it  sho's  yo's  bo'n, 
Kase  my  heart  was  thumpin'  for  I  heard  a  soun', 
An'  den  I   drap'd  down  on  de  dark,  dark  groun'. 

An'   lissen   in   de   co'nfield   down   by   de  road 

Whar  millyuns  grow  by  de  wagon  load. 

I  toted  out  dat  millyun,  but  I  dun  went  back, 

An'  I  got  a-nudder  big  'un  an'  put  in  de  sack, 

Den  'Riah  an'  me  toted  'em  er  long, 

Wif  many  er  laff  and  many  er  song, 
Way  from  de  co'nfield  down  by  de  road 
Whar  millyuns  were  layin'  by  de  wagon  load. 

We  'spected  dem  millyuns  wid  an  ole  case  knife, 

Fur  I'ze  fond  ob  de  co'e  and  so  is  my  wife. 

What  was  next  to  de  rine  we  left  right  thar, 

For  Sam  an'  Judy  an'  Hezekiah, 
So  we  waked  dem  chillun  an'  to  dem  showed 
What  we  brot  'em  from  de  co'nfield  down  de  road. 

Now  'member  little  chillun  what  you  fodder  say, 
Like  him,  yo'  be  honest,  'tis  fa'  de  better  way. 
An'  he  will  pint  yo  'to  de  paff  and  show  each  one  de  road, 
Whar  de  millyuns  am  a  growin'  by  de  wagon  load. 

— Fremont  Garrett. 


Winchester. 


MOUNT   ST.   ELIAS. 

Thy  paths  are  other  than  the  paths  of  men, 

Thy  forehead  radiant  as  the  morning  star, 
Oft  shrouded  in  the  rolling  mist  has  been 

And  long  has  Winter,  in  his  icy  car, 
With  cold  benumbed  thee;   vapors,  dense  and  rare, 

Around  thee  gather  and  the  tempests  blow 
About  thy  head;  still  soaring  high  in  air 

Is  dimly  seen  thy  cloud-encircled  brow, 
And  hark! — the  glaciers  plunge  where  Ocean  rolls,  below. 

When  mountain-mists  envelope  thee  and  veil, 

When  thou  art  hidden  in  the  tempest's  shroud, 
And  when  with  rising  wrath  the  gathering  gale 

Communes  with  thee  or  mutters  in  the  cloud, — 
When  bursts  the  storm  and  thunder  crashes  loud, 

Lost,  then,  is  that  sublimity  of  sights, 
Which  chained  the  visipn  and  the  spirit  bowed. 

A  charm, — an  awe, — each  precipice  excites 
That  steeply  frowns  on  man  from  thy  dread,  matchless  heights. 

The  Children  of  the  Chase  have  bowed  to  thee 

As  Prophet  of  the  Storm  in  ages  gone. 
And  still  they  raise  their  orisons  to  thee 

When  caverns  roar  and  seething  breakers  run. 
The  savage  spirit  worships  thee  as  one, 

O'er  all  the  forest  tribes,  Great  Manito! 
The  Sachem  of  the  Mountains  and  the  Sun, 

At  whose  command  the  winds  of  winter  blow, 
The  waves  of  ocean  roll  and  foaming  torrents  flow. 

But  there  is  One  above  and  over  thee, 

The  Ruler  of  the  Ocean  and  the  Storm, 
Whose  Mighty  Hand  in  awful  majesty 

And  beauty  reared  the  mountain's  lofty  form. 
The  forest  and  the  cloud, — the  starry  swarm 

In  splendor,  brightly  beaming,  overhead, — 
The  deep  and  lonely  vale's  sequestered  charm, 

He  fashioned  forth;  the  flowing  rivers  fed 
And  foaming  torrents  o'er  the  precipices  led. 

The  mountains  are  the  sentinels  of  God; 

The  vales  are  His  eternal  resting  place; 
The  towering  trees  that  in  the  breezes  nod 

Beneath  the  sea  of  Heaven's  placid  face, 
His  pillars  are;    the  flowing  waters  trace 

In  liquid  lines  His  name  upon  the  sand; 
The  radiant  stars  illuminating  space. 

The  rolling  ocean  and  the  smiling  land, 
Bear  witness  to  the  power  of  the  Almighty  Hand. 

—Frank  White  Harned. 
Richmond. 


PROEM  FROM  "NARCISSUS." 

Sweet  Memory!    thou  matchless  maid  and  emblem  of  infinity, 
Haste  thee  and  cloy  my  soul  with  dream  wraiths  wrapped  in  misty 

films. 

Bid  sullen  shades  depart,  I  want  no  wrinkled  wayward  thought 
To  tread  the  hidden  labyrinths  of  my  heart.     \Vnen  thou  art  nigh 
The  phantom  brood  of  sadness  steals  away;  caresses  soft  as 
Thistle-down,  do  lightly  fall  and  trouble-musings  brush  aside. 
Come  thou  at  dawn  and  with  the  pale  blue  cloud,  to  dip  and  drown 

me  in 

The  hours  I'd  buried  in  the  past;  to  summer  days  when  moments  fled 
Like  frightened   fledglings  to  the   mother  nest;    to  summer  nights 

when 

Weary    nature   crooned   soft   lullabies,  and   fragrant   zephyrs   whis 
pered,  till 
The  hum  of  drowsy  drones  did  steep  us  deep  in  summer's  languor 

soft. 

Oh  Memory!  thy  varied  moods  and  perfect  wiles  have  lingered  long; 
They  come  in  dreams  as  merry  glees  of  birds  and  raindrops'  music 

notes . 

The  robins'  matin  lay,  the  pale  nuns'  even-song  thou  brightest  near. 
For  anxious  Care  hath  never  cloaked  thy  dimpling  smile  or  stilled 
The  low  pure  intonations  of  thy  passioned  voice;   so  rich  in  tone 
That  e'en  the  liquid  lute  or  mellow  viol  might  strive  to  emulate. 
Though  burdened  years  have  flit  away,  I  list  as  to  a  chambered  shell 
Remembering  words  that  fill  my  heart  with  rapturous  music,  then 

regret, 

And  one  long  yearn  for  just  the  whispered  fragrance  of  thy  pres 
ence. 

Thy  dreamy  orbs  and  sun-fringed  hair,  intoxication  lent  to 
The  warm  coquetry  of  thy  charms;  enslaving  many  a  pensive  heart 
That  aches  with  jealous  rage  at  Death  who  dares  to  let  his  finger 

chill 
Rove  o'er  thy  face  and  blanch  thy  rosy  lips.  Oh  precious  Memory! 

— Percy    Arthur    Parry. 
Hammond. 


THE  FIRST  SORROW. 

Once  there  were  two  happy  young  people  who  loved  each  other. 
They  had  been  married  just  a  twelve-month  when  a  little  girl  came 
to  live  with  them.  Such  a  tiny  little  girl  she  was,  but  small  a& 
was  the  little  lady  she  had  a  way  of  making  herself  heard  and  at 
tended  to.  She  had  a  peculiar  language  of  her  own  that  the 
young  mother  learned  to  know  and  understand. 

The  young  parents  looked  upon  the  frail  barque  that  had  drifted 
in  to  them  from  an  unknown  isle  of  blessedness,  in  m.utual  wonder 
and  delight.  It  was  all  so  marvelous.  They  could  scarcely  realize 
it  at  first.  Was  it  their  baby  really — their  very  own  baby?  How 
good  of  God!  How  good!  But  they  were  so  ignorant — so  helpless. 
Would  He  teach  them  wisdom?  Would  He  show  them  the  way  to 
lead  this  little  girl? 

Day  by  day  the  baby  thrived.  Before  the  weeks  stretched  them 
selves  into  many  months  baby  looked  up  into  its  mother's  face  and 
smiled.  Oh  joy!  It  knew  her.  It  knew  her.  Would  the  father 
come  and  see?  Quick,  oh  quick!  There — look  now.  Wasn't  it 
beautiful?  A  little  later  it  began  to  coo  and  gurgle  and  talk  in 
baby  fashion.  Every  day  brought  out  some  new  phaze  in  look, 
tone  or  manner.  The  young  parents  sat  through  the  long  happy 
twilights  and  talked  confidently  of  the  future  and  dreamed  on,  un 
aware  of  the  shadow  stealthily  approaching.  One  morning  the 
little  girl  was  not  well.  The  old  family  physician  was  called 
in.  He  looked  wise  and  said  there  was  nothing  wrong.  The 
baby  would  be  all  right  by  night.  He  left  some  dark  liquid  in  a 
bottle  and  went  away.  The  heart  of  the  young  mother  was  sore 
troubled. 

The  baby  slept  on  till  the  morning.  The  door  was  opened  to 
admit  the  doctor.  He  bent  down  over  the  little  girl.  The  mother 
saw  his  face  change. 

The  doctor  raised  his  head  and  shook  it  gravely. 
"I  can't  do  anything,"  he  said.    "It's  too  late." 

The  young  mother  sat  through  the  long  days  that  followed  strok 
ing  the  arm  that  had  made  a  hollow  for  the  little  head  and  moaned: 
"I'm  so  hungry  for  her — so  hungry!" 

But  as  time  went  on  and  other  sturdy  boys  and  girls  came  to  grow 
up  about  them,  the  father  and  mother  learned  this:  The  little 
barque  haa  to  drift  back  to  the  country  from  whence  it  came,  to 
give  them  the  very  wisdom  they  had  asked  of  God. 

— Minnie  Thomas  Boyce. 
Muncie. 


I 


TWO  NATURES. 

Two   sisters   fair,   on   a  stormy   night, 

Sat  and  talkc-1  in  the  flickering  light 

Of  an  old  fashioned  grate  with  its  embers  bright. 

The  rain  beat  down  on  the  panelled  door 
And  the  night  winds  blew  with  a  Ceaseless  roar 
Like  mighty  waves  on  a  rocky  shore. 

Then  one  of  the  maids  uneasy  grew 

And  nearer  and  nearer  the  fireplace  drew 

As  the  rain  beat  on  and  the  night  winds  blew. 

"It   moans,  oh  sister,  it  moans  to  me 

Of  shipwrecked  boats  on  a  storm  tossed  sea, 

Of  souls  that  must  enter  eternity." 

The  other  rose  from  her  sister's  side 
And  opened  the  window's  curtain  wide 
"Shall  we  from  our  Father's  presence  hide? 

It  speaks  to  me  of  a  King's  great  might 

Of  how  His  every  plan  is  right  ( 

Something,  somewhere  needs  the  rain  to-night- 

And  she  watched  by  the  window     a     long     hour 

through, 

But  the  other  nearer  the  fireplace  drew 
As  the  rain  beat  on  and  the  night  winds  b 

—Josephine  Page  Wright. 
Ft.  Wayne 


MY  COUNTRY  RIGHT  OR  WRONG. 

Forever  let  this  be  my  song, 

The  thought  is  good  enough  for  me 

My  country  right,  my  country  wrong, 
Where  floats  her  flag  oh  there  I'll  be. 

Her  cannons  never  flame  nor  roar, 
On  heaving  sea  or  verdant  sod, 

But  belch  to  bless  the  distant  shore, 
And  break  a  tyrant's  cruel  rod. 

It  waves  in  Cuba's  tropic  air, 
Bright  gem  of  the  silvery  seas, 

And  o'er  free  Porto  Rico  fair, 

Floats  in  the  Sandwich  Islands'  breeze. 

z       It  is  the  oriflame  of   God, 

And  shining  bright  across  the  world, 
It  breaks  the  proud  oppressor's  rod, 
Wheresoever  that  flag's  unfurled. 

Sc  o'er  the  oceans  broad  and  wide, 

Our  starry  flag  shall  ever  be, 
The  Morning  Star,  across  the  tide, 

To  those  oppressed,  who  would  be  free. 

The  thought  is  good  enough   for  me, 
My  country  right,  my  counTy  wrong, 
Where  floats'  her  flag,  oh,  there  I'll  be, 
Blessed  Banner  of  the  Brave  and  Free. 

— Dewitt  C.  Chipman 
Anderson. 


ft, 


AT  A  TENEMENT  WINDOW. 

Sometimes  my  needle  stops  with  half-drawn  thread 

(Not  often  though,  each  moment's  waste  means  bread 

And  missing  stitches  leave  the  little  mouths  unfed.) 

I  look  down  on  the  dingy  court  below : 

A  tuft  of  grass  is  all  it  has  to  show — 

A  broken  pump,  where  thirsty   children   go. 

Above,  there  shines  a  bit  of  sky,  so  small 

That  it  might  be  a  passing  blue-bird's  wing. 

One  tree  leans  up  against  the  high  brick  wall, 

And  there  the  sparrows  twitter  of  the  spring, 

Until  they  waken  in  my  heart  a  cry 

Of  hunger,  that  no  bread  can  satisfy. 

Always  before,  when  May-time  took  her  way 
Across  the  fields,  I  followed  close.       Touc._ 
I  can  but  dream  of  all  her  bright  array. 
My  work  drops  down.      Across  the  sill  I  lean, 
And  long  with  bitter  longing,  for  unseen 
Rain-freshened  paths,  where  budding     woods     gro\\ 
green. 

The  water  trickles  frcm  the  pump  below 
Upon  the  stones.    With  eyes  half  shut,  I  hear 
It  falling  in  a  pool  where  rushes  grow, 
And  feel  a  cooling  presence  drawing  near. 
And  now  the  sparrows  chirp  again.     No,  hark! 
A  singing  as  of  some  far  meadow  lark. 

It  is  the  same  old  miracle  applied 

Unto  myself,  that  on  the  mountain-side 

The  few  small  loaves  and  fishes  multiplied. 

Behold,  how  strange  and  sweet  the  mystery. 

The  birds,  the  broken  pump,  the  gnarled  tree, 

Have  brought  the  fullness  of  the  spring  to  me. 

For  in  the  leaves  that  rustle  by  the  wall 

All  forests  find  a  tongue.     And  so  the  grass 

Can,  with  its  struggling  tuft  of  green,  recall 

Wide,  bloom-filled  meadows  where  the  cattle  pass. 

How  it  can  be,  but  dimly  I  divine. 

These  crumbs,  God  given,  make  the  whole  loaf  mine. 

— Annie  Fellows  Johnston. 

T^VQ  11  QA,Tl1  1  P 


OUR  LITTLE  GIRL  WHO  DIED  WITHOUT  A 

NAME. 

How  brief  the  stay,  as  beautiful  as  fleeting, 

The  time  that  baby  came  with  us  to  dwell ; 
Just  long  enough  to  give  a  happy  greeting, 

Just  long  enough  to  bid  us  all  farewell. 
Death  travels  down  the  thickly-settled  highway, 

At  shining  marks  they  say  he  loves  to  aim ; 
How  did  he  find,  far  down  the  lonely  byway, 

Our  little  girl  who  died  without  a  name? 

We  do  not  know  the  fond  endearment  spoken 

To  which  she  listened  when  she  fell  asleep, 
And  so,  beside  a  column  that  was  broken, 

We  laid  her  to  her  slumber  calm  and  deep. 
We  traced  upon  the  stone  with  loving  fingers, 

These  simple  words  affection's  tear  to  claim: 
"In  dreams,  beyond  all  earthly  sorrow,  lingers 

Our  little  girl  who  died  without  a  name." 

She  sleeps  serene  where  fragrant  mossy  willows 

In  sweet  and  wordless  tunes  forever  wave, 
And  summer  seas  in  long  and  grassy  billows 

Break  into  bloom  around  her  lonely  grave. 
In  memory's  hall  how  many  heroes  slumber, 

We  s^ild  their  deeds  upon  the  scroll  of  fame; 
I  treasure  far  above  this  mighty  number, 

Our  little  girl  who  died  without  a  name. 

— Alonzo  Rice. 
Waldron. 


12 


OUR  DARLING  TREASURE. 

Though  my  life  is  filled  with  labor, 

Busy  days  from  morn  till  night, 
1  have  much  to  cheer  me  onward, 

One  dear  thought  is  my  delight, 
When  my  busy  day  is  ended 

And  my  thoughts  toward  home  are  drawn, 
Erom  within  a  sweet  voice  greets  me: 

"Mamma,  where  have  papa  gone?" 

When  I  enter  through  the  doorway, 

Baby    faces   glad   with    light, 
Give  to  me  the  grandest  welcome, 

In  my  cottage  home  at  night. 
Then,  when  I  have  bathed  for  supper, 

And  am  in  my  chair  for  rest, 
Baby  arms  reach  up  and  beg  me 

For  the  usual  night  caress. 

Then  with  joy  I  lift  my  baby 
To  his  perch  upon  my  knee, 

And  he  laughs,  and  coos,  and  prattles- 
Seems  as  happy  as  can  be. 

How  much  I  love  my  little  prattler 
Words  of  mine  can  scarce  express, 

But  with  tenderest  love  I  fold  him 
In  my  arms— fast  to  my  breast. 

Then  his  blue  eyes  looking  upward 
Beam  with  love  he  gives  to  me, 

And  his  baby  prattle  tells  me: 
"Nicey  papa"— this  says  he. 

By  and  by  he  seems  to  weary,    • 

But  unselfish,  thinks  of  me, 

And  in  baby  whispers  asks  me : 
"Papa,  papa,  is  'oo  seepee. 

When  our  evening  prayer  is  ended 

And  we  each  retire  to  rest,      ^ 
Deep  within  our  hearts  we  feel  it, 

We  indeed  are  truly  blest. 
Father,  grant  Thy  richest  blessings, 

Without  measure,  full  and  free. 
And  we'll  try  to  teach  our  darlings 

All  to  love  and  follow  thee. 

—Jennie  Oliver  Appleman. 

Bushy  Prairie. 


HOMESICK. 

Wisht  I  could  go  back  again 
To  the  old  home  in  the  West, 
Jest  to  get  a  glimpse  once  more 
Of  the  things  I  loved  the  best. 
Jest  to  see  the  tumble  weeds 
A  rollin'  crost  the  breakin' — 
Jest  to  see  an  old  sod  house 
Would  stop  my  heart  from  achin 
Jest  to  hear  the  prairie  chickens 
Drummiir  in  the  hollers, — 
Jest  to  see  a  medder  lark, 
I'd  give  a  hundred  dollars. 
Jest  to  see  the  green  of  Spring 
A  creepin'  crost  the  plain, 
Would  bring  the  joy  of  childhood 
Into  my   heart  again. 
I'd  like  to  hear  the  summer  wind 
A   blowin'    crost   the   wheat; 
I  reckon  I  never  will  hear  again 
A  sound  that's  half  so  sweet. 

I'd  like  to  be  drivin'  the  cows  again 
Or  shockin'  up  the  wheat, 

With   the   hot   sun   nigh   about    roastin     me, 

And  the  stubble  a  prickin'  my  feet. 

And  I'd  like  to  hear,  in  the  Autumn, 

The  sound  of  the  reaper's  song, 

Or  to  see  a  prairie  fire 

A  crawlin'  and  creepin'  along.     . 

Or  even  to  hear,  in  the  winter, 

The  sound  of  a  blizzard's  roar, 

Would  take  me  back,  through  weary  years, 

To  be  a  child  once  more. 

Jest  to  see  the  dear  old  friends 

And  to  take  'em  by  the  hand, 

Would  seem  like  I  had  gone  to  sleep, 

And  waked  in  the  Better  Land. 

And  so  my  thoughts  keep  turniiv 

Back  to  the  golden  West ; 

And  my  heart  is  longin'  for  jest  one  glimpse 

Of  the  things  that   I   loved  best. 

Mary  Frances  Bigelow. 

Elkhart. 


Wall,  no!  I  can't  tell  where  he  lives, 

Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways    he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of   livin'    like   you   and    me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  years, 

That    you    haven't    heard    folks    tell 
How    Jim    Bludso   passed   in   his   checks, 

The    night    of    the    Prairie    Bell? 
He  weren't  no  saint — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-TJnder-the-Hill 
And  another  one  here    in   Pike; 
A  keerless   man   in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  man  in  a  row. 
But  he  never  flunked  and  he  never  lied — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 
And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had — 

To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 
,    To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Bell  took  firc- 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 
All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississipp, 

And  her  day  came  at  last — 
The  Movaster  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Bell,  she  wouldn't  be  passed, 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With   a   nigger   squat   on   her   safety-valve. 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 
The  fire  bust  out  as  she  cleared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier  bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal   roar, 
"I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 
Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussednes^. 

And  know'd  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure's  you'r  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke   of  the  Prairie  Belle. 
He  weren't  no  saint — but  at   jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing— 

And  went  for  it  thar  and   then; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 
Salem.  —John  Hay. 


BOUNTIFUL  JUNE. 

O  bountiful  June !  The  golden  sun 
Now  bids  you  welcome  your  race  to  run, 
And  hails  you  a  queen  this  natal  day 
Born  of  the  night  divided  with  May. 

She  kissed  you  awake  at  midnight  hour 
Full  robed  and  crowned  in  your  silent  bower ; 
'Neath  the   palace  dome  of  the  starlit  skies 
You  leapt  from  your  couch  in  quick  surprise. 

The  broad   grain  fields  that  wave  in  the  breeze, 
Sparkling  with  crystals  wrought  of  the  seas, 
And  greetings  from  corn-land,  valley  and  lea, 
All  happy  and  joyous,  trusting  to  thee. 

And  down  from  the  mountain,  a  glow,  a  gleam 
Rushes  to  meet  the  silvery  stream  ; 
From  woodland  and  glen  the  songbird's  note 
And  flowers  perfume  together  afloat. 

All  nature  is  decked  in  proudest  array 
Her  fairest  garments  she  is  wearing  today  , 
Bringing  her  richest  treasures,  a  boon 
To  welcome  thee  queen,  O  bountiful  June. 

Philip   Shissler   Binkley. 
East  Germantown. 


AIR  CASTLES. 

Sleeping,  I  dreamed,  and  in  my  dreaming  saw — 
Fair  in  a  vale  set  round  with  turquoise  steeps, — 
Where  starry  lotus  slept  upon  the  deeps 
Of  the  still  meres,  and  languor  seemed  the  law, 
A  city,  rising  in  the  drowsy  light — 

Slim  minarets  above,  broad  halls  below, 
Carved  capitals,  wreathed  columns,  walls  of  sno\v 
All  cunningly  displayed  to  please  the  sight. 
And  as  I  gazer4,  half  doubting  that  my  eyes 
Saw  such  a  sight,  half  knowing  it  was  true- 
As  haunting-  strains  of  music  wander  through 
The  soul,  while  ancient  mem'ries  ebb  and  rise— 
"What  is  the  vale,  and  what  the  city  fair?" 
I  asked,  as  one  who  ponders  in  his  heart 
Some  question  ;  then  I  heard  without  a  start 
A  voice  that,  seeming,  spoke  from  empty  air: 
"Mark  well  the  sight ;  all  that  thoti  seest  here- 
Minaret,  dome  and  wall,  and  garden  sweet, 
Frondage  of  palms  that  guard  each  silent  street- 
All  thou  hast  known  and,  knowing,  held  them  de?1 
Once  more  I  looked,  and  knew  that  it  was  so, 
And  halting  mem'ry  told  me  then  the  tale: 
Once  more  I  saw,  as  through  a  filmy  veil, 
Castles  my  heart  had  builded,  long  ago- 

—Frank  Glover  Heaton. 
"Marion. 


GOD'S  BREATH. 

He  passed  this  way ; 

I  heard  the  rustling  of  His  garments  fair, 
And  called  it  night-wind  in  the  tree  tops  bare  , 
Saw  but  a  glorious  hem  with  silver  gleam, 

And  thought  it  moon-light's  beam. 

He  passed  this  way, 

Pausing  with  love  beside  my  casement  lone 
To  look  upon  His  sleeping  little  one, 
And  breathed  upon  the  pane  through  the  chill  ; 

A  page  of  beauty  rare. 

And  since  His  breath 

Is  beauty's  soul  arrayed  beyond  compare, 
I  would  that  He,  who  stood  outside  so  fan- 
Would  enter  where  no  hindering  casement  >e, 

And  breathe  on  me. 

—Alice  Warren  Milligan. 

Spencer. 


air 


LIFE'S  SCHOOLDAY. 

'Tis  said  that  all  this  life  of  ours — 

Where  prick  the  thorns  and  smile  the  flowers — 

Is   one   vast   school. 
And  in  the  dew-lit  dawn  of  youth, 
Begins  the  search  for  hidden  truth  ; 

While  sunbeams  strew  their  roseate  ray 
Across  the  first  proud,  happy  day. 

'Neath  teacher's  rule. 
With  far-off  prophecy,  is  filled 
Our  young  ambition,  doubt  is  stilled 

In  vision  bright 

Of  effort  crowned.    There  are  no  fears 
That  through  the  surging  tide  of  years, 
The  ship  that  bears  most  precious  freight, 
Must  sail  'thwart  rock-girt  coast  of  fate, 

Toward  summit  white. 
Like  land   receding  from  the  sea, 
When  stalely  ships,  all  silently 

Drop  from  the  shore  ; — 
So  swiftly  morn  glides  into  noon, 
And  Time's  hour-glass,  ah,  me  !  how  soon 
W7ill  scatter  through  its  ceasless  flow, 
The   sands   of  youthful   hopes,   aglow 

With   childhood's   lore. 
Conies  afternoon  :    The  lessons  learned 
Grow  deeper  as  each  page  is  turned 

In  life's  great  Book. 
Each  mastered  task  a  stepping-stone 
To  higher  grade,  where  mystic  zone 
Girds  aspiration's  dizzy  hight, — 
Toward  which — through  whirl  of  Time's  swift 
flight— 

We  ever  look. 

Serenely,  now,  the  sun  has  dipped 
Into  the  West;  and  stars  have  slipped 

Back  to  their  place. 
From  matin  song  to  vesper  bell, 
We've  studied  long — recited  well. 
And  soon  a  volume  new  we'll  hold. 
Where,  with  their  shining  pens  of  gold— 

The  angels  trace. 

— Adelia   Pope   Branham. 
Greenfield. 


INDIANA. 

Fair  Indiana,  our  native  land ! 

A  poet's  song  for  thee ; 
A  song  that  will  through  ages  stand, 

To  immortality. 

A  song  of  home,  of  humble  strain, 

Thy  far  off  sons  to  cheer ; 
With  love  for  thee  in  every  vein, 

A  song  of  rev'rence  dear. 

No  purer  land  the  earth  contains, 

Here  burns  the  patriot's  fire ; 
Here  Christian  hope  forever  reigns, 

And  tunes  the  sacred  lyre. 

Though  winter's  frost  has  nipped  thy  green, 

Yet  soon  will  smiling  spring 
In  beauty  look  upon  the  scene, 

And  bid  all  nature  sing. 

Long   may   you   boast   the   great   and   good, 

Thy  peers  be  men  of  worth, 
Thy  motto :  Freedom,  Brotherhood, 

To  gild  thy  name  on  earth. 

May  peace  and  plenty  be  thy  store, 

With  joy  and  sweet  content ; 
May  never  tyrants  rule  thy  shore, 

Thy  greatness  ne'er  be  rent. 

— Lucy  Ellyat  Hoggatt. 
Petersburg. 


THE  PERFECT  DAY. 

God  of  life,  and  truth,  and  love- 
God  around,  beneath,  above — 
Clear  the  dust  of  earth  away : 
Let  us  have  the  perfect  day — 

Day  without  the  dark  of  sin ; 
Day  with  Christ  the  life  within. 
Doubts  must  vanish,  flee  away : 
Let  us  have  the  perfect  day. 

Morning,  evening,  day  and  night — 
All  in  God,  alike,  are  right; 
Joy  and   sorrow — 'tis  His  way: 
Let  us  have  the  perfect  day ; 

Day  without  a  doubt  of  good, 
Faith   in   human   brotherhood ; 
Christ  the  life,  the  truth,  the  way: 
This  will  bring  the  perfect  day. 

— Esther  Strattan  Wallace. 
Richmond. 


BATTLE  SONG  OF  YOUTH. 

In   gloom   or   mirth 

The  cloud-wrapped  earth 
Doth  swing  in  sun  and  rain  ; 

But  be  the  future  dark  or  clear, 

I'll  falter  not  in  doubt  or  fear, 
Nor  reck  the  joy  or  pain. 

Thro'    daring   deed 

My   path   shall   lead 
Where  heroes  strive  and  die ; 

But   spite   of   ills   that   lurk   and   wait, 

My  life  shall  claim  its  high  estate, 
And  baffling  foes  defy. 

If  friends  be  true, 

Or    friends   be   few ; 
My  valor  'twill  but  prime ; 

I'll  meet  the  dragons  of  my  fate, 

And  force  allegiance  soon  or  late, 
Nor  stay  a  march  sublime. 

Let  stars  burn   clear, 
Or  cease  to  cheer, 
The  upward  path  I  climb ; 

Yet  with  the  might  of  soul  desire, 
I'll   write  my  name  in^  living  fire. 
Beyond  the  storms  of  Time! 

— Elizebeth    Ellen    Eoulke. 
Richmond. 


SING,  MAMMA,  SING. 

"Sing,   mamma,    sing,     and   the   curly    head 

Tossed  to  and  fro  on  the  little  bed, 

Unable  quite  to  go  to  rest, 

Unsung,  unhushed  and  uncaressed ; 

And  with  the  wakeful,  asking  eyes 

Looked  out  in  wond'ring,  grieved  surprise 

That  mamma  sat  so  still  and  sad, 

With  hushed  voice,  which  e'er  so  glad 

Sang  lullaby  so  soft  and  mild 

To  her  sleepy,  sleeping,  dreaming  child. 

And  mamma  tried  to  raise  her  voice, 
To  sing  the   song,  her  baby's  choice, 
But  ere  she  could  voice  forth  a  note 
It  trembled,  died  in  her  swelling  throat, 
For  her  heart  was  sad  and  full  of  grief, 
And  mourned  in  sorrow,  whose  relief 
Was  only  tears  ;  for  on  that  day 
Had  Death  stole  one  loved  one  away ; 
A  song,  how  could  she  ever  start 
With  trembling  lips  and  sorrowing  heart? 

The  lisping  lips  pled  once  again, 

The  mother  woke   and  stifled   pain, 

The  lonely  living  claimed  no  less 

Than  loved  dead  her  tenderness. 

O  baby,  what  a  mission   sweet, 

To  keep  the  mother-heart  replete 

With  song!     No  matter  what  the  mood, 

Nor  the  heart-ache  which  she  would 

Nurse  in  silence  and  in  tears, 

She  must  lay  aside  all  cares. 

And  sing  to  baby,  sing  and  sing, 

Till  the  song  itself  shall  sweet  peace  bring. 

—Viola  Parks  Edwards. 
Bedford. 


I  WONDER  WHY. 


O  dawning  day,  so  fair  to  see, 

O  youthful  life,  how  bright  it  be, 

O  noon-tide  hour,  O  life-time's  prime, 
O  sun  of  day,  O  sun  of  time, 

O  sun  descending  in  the  west — 

O  life,  thou'rt  passing,  fleeting  fast, 

0  day,  thy  work  so  grandly  done 

At  close, 

Ours  scarcely 
Has  begun ! 

In  deepest  thought  my  mind  I  turn, 

To  study  oft,  but  never  learn- 
Why  we  our  life-course  may  not  run 
With  perfect  close,  as  setting  sun. 

1  wonder  why,  at  diwn  of  light, 
When  pass  away  the  shades  of  night ; 

I  wonder  why,  at  noon-tide  hour, 

When  earth's  great  lamp    displays    her 

power ; 
I  wonder  why,  at  twilight  hour, 

Wlien  dew  is  resting  on  the  flower ; 
I  wonder  why,  at  still  of  night, 

When  shine  the  stars,  so  clear,  so  bright, 
I  wonder  why,  when  sets  life's  sun, 
Our  work, 

We    cannot    say, 
Is  done. 

— Pearl  Augusta  Williams. 
Greensburg. 


A  PICTURESQUE  WATER-WAY. 

If  you  desire  to  take  a  row,  I  would  say  go 
in  the  early  morning-,  when  the  sun  first  shakes  the 
rays  of  light  from  his  tangled  meshes ;  turn  the  prow 
of  your  boat  toward  the  city  of  W — .  Let  the  gleam 
ing  oars  bear  you  swiftly,  pausing  only  as  you  pas: 
a  bed  of  sleeping  lilies.  There  you  want  to  steer  your 
boat  in  and  out  the  cushions  of  moss  and  weed,  plunge 
your  arm  into  the  shining  depths  and  pluck  the  lily- 
stem  from  its  secure  moorings.  After  stowing  away 
your  treasures  in  a  corner  of  your  boat  where  the  sun 
will  kiss  their  petals  until  they  open  into  cups  of 
creamy  gold,  you  hasten  a  /ay  soon  reaching  the 
mouth  of  this  sequestered  channel. 

Now  linger  lazily  under  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 
The  sunlight  is  waking  bird  and  blossom ;  the  mid 
summer  insect  is  humming  his  sleepy  monotone ;  tfu 
dew  is  sparkling  on  bramble  and  fern.  Instinctively 
you  think  of  Tennyson's  Brook,  but  instead  of  gliding 
over  a  pebbly  bottom,  the  water  is  sleeping  quietly  on 
its  couch  of  dark  mosses.  On  either  side  the  delicate 
green  ferns  bend  low,  the  crimson  wild  flower  nods  to 
her  image  in  the  water  and  the  golden-rod  braids  hei 
yellow  tresses  by  the  same  mirror. 

The  banks  are  aglow  with  flower  color.  The  thorny 
blackberry  thrusts  its  fruit  to  the  water's  edge,  you 
push  your  boat  close  and  pluck  and  eat  your  fill  of  the 
fresh  luscious  fruit.  A  tangled  mass  farther  in  of  dew 
berry  and  huckleberry,  of  shrub  and  flower  attracts 
your  attention.  The  morning  dew  and  freshness  over 
all,  and  quietness  about  you,  causes  you  to  thank  your 
Heavenly  Father  for  a  world  so  beautiful — and  1VTE 
for  showing  you  the  way  to  my  quiet  lagoon. 

— Sue  N.  Barr  Grouse. 
LaFayette. 


THE  PSALMS  IX  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

(By  Courtesy  of  the  Century  Magazine.) 

In  the  great  ocean's  thunder 

I  heard  the  old  songs  ring; 
I  heard  them  in  the  prairies 

Above  the  glad  corn  sing; 
The  murmur  of  the  pinewood 

With  Israel's  plaint  was  sweet, 
And  through  the  little  hills  I  heard 

Its  solemn  rhythm  beat. 

But  oh,  'twas  in  the  mountains, 

The  great  hymns  held  me  thrall! 
Where  the  four  winds  of  heaven 

Set  forth  their  challenge  call, 
With   martial  trumpet  thrilling 

The  rough-hewn  brawny  range, 
And   through   dark  canons   chanting 

The  spirit  of  all  change. 

The  cattle  of  the  foothills 

In  o-athering  snow  stood  deep ; 
The  shepherds,  through  white  meadows, 

Went  stumbling  for  their  sheep, 
And  where  the  lonely  hamlet 

Slept  'neath  stern  mountain  walls, 
The  winds  across  the  midnight 

Sang  hoarse  antiphonals. 

'Twas  Israel's  heart  melodious 

That  from  the  lone  hight  sang, 
Till  loud  the  ancient  hymnal 

O'er  plain  and  desert  rang,— 
Far-sounding  notes  of  triumph 

To  grief  and  wailing  ran, 
As  Nature's  voices  uttered 

The  cry  of  God  to  man. 

Meredith  Nicholson. 

Indianapolis. 


HER  SIN 

"What— Madeline,  after  these  four  years  of  separation  have  I 
returned  only  to  find  you  grown  cold  and  haughty,  have  you  no 
word  of  welcome  for  me?  Heaven!  what  does  your  silence  mean, 
are  you  trifling,  playing  a  part,  only  trying  to  test  me?  Ah,  Madeline, 
my  soul  has  thirsted  for  your  presence,  my  heart  has  hungered  for 
one  word  from  you,  for  one  kiss  from  your  lips.  How  I  have 
longed  for  this  hour— but  come,  girl,  are  you  not  satisjied?  Come  to 
me  and  tell  me  you  love  me  as  you  used  to,  long  ago."  With  one 
bound  Madeline  was  in  his  arms.  She  had  become  a  wife  and  mother 
since  they  parted,  but  of  this  he  knew  nothing.  All  thoughts  of 
the  dispised  husband  were  gone,  the  frail  little  babe  was  also  forgot 
ten  and  she  knew  nothing  beyond  the  present  moment. 

She  lay  in  his  arms  intoxicated  by  the  passion  of  his  words,  his 
lips  upon  hers  and  his  breath  upon  her  cheek.  With  a  husband 
who  cared  nothing  for  her,  who  left  her  weeks  at  a  time  to  the 
despair  of  her  own  thoughts,  what  wonder  that  all  the  old  love  for 
this  man,  the  love  of  her  youth,  surged  up  in  her  heart  with  renewed 
strength  and  she  forgot  the  ties  that  should  have  held  her  aloof. 

"Your  mother  does  not  favor  me  now,  more  than  she  used  to,  1 
expect,  though  I  have  earned  the  fortune  she  demanded.  Madeline, 
sweetheart,  I  cannot  wait  for  my  bride,  let  us  go  to  your  mother  and 
get  her  consent  to  an  immediate  marriage." 

"No,  no,  she  would  never  consent,  and  you  promised  to  take  me 
away  from  here  dearest,  I  am  not  happy  here,  let  us  go  to  New 
York,  it  is  but  six  hours'  ride,  and  I  can  get  my  dress  and  be  married 
there."  He  did  not  think  this  strange,  so  complete  was  his  confi 
dence  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  parted. 

Madeline  went  to  her  room,  wrote  a  note  to  her  mother  imploring 
her  to  watch  over  her  child  and  care  for  it  as  her  own— then  a 
note  to  her  husband  simply,  coldly  bidding  him  farewell. 

At  eight  o'clock  she  quietly  left  the  house  and  walked  quickly 
toward  the  station  and  purchased  a  ticket  for  New  York.  A  few 
minutes  later  Lloyd  Armour  joined  her.  "My  darling,  I  knew  you 
would  not  fail  me"  he  murmured,  tenderly  taking  her  arm  within 
his  own.  "No,"— the  woman's  face  was  pale  and  determined,  "I 
would(  be  here,  or — dead!"  Scarcely  had  the  words  passed  her  lips 
when  the  report  of  a  pistol  was  heard  and  with  a  cry  Madeline 
threw  up  her  arms  and  fell  backward  into  the  supporting  arms  of 
her  lover.  She  was  still  conscious  when  they  laid  her  on  a  bed  in 
the  hospital.  She  looked  up  at  the  white  anguished  face  above  her. 
"Lloyd,  love,  forgive."  "My  darling,  oh  Madeline,  who  could  harm 
you?" 

"My— oh  Lloyd— you  will  still— love?— he  was— my— husband!"  "Your 
husband,  my  God!  she  must  be  raving  though."  "No.  no— Lloyd, 
but  they— forced  me— to  marry  him— Lloyd,  T  have  always— loved 
you— only  you— forgive  me— now?"  Her  strength  was  ebbing  fast— 
every  word  caused  severest  suffering.  She  had  only  a  few  minutes 
to  live.  Her  appealing  eyes  were  fastened  upon  his  face.  He  bent 
over  her.  "Forgive  you  my  love,  yes,  fully— I  know  how  it  was,  new. 
And  Madeline  darling,  does  it  comfort  you  to  know  I  have  never 
thought  of  any  woman  but  you?  You  were  my  life,  my  hope,  my 
thoughts  by  day  and  my  dreams  by  night.  Oh,  my  God!  how  can 
I  give  her  up?"  Here  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands  while  the 
bitterest  thoughts  the  ever  swept  a  human  heart  made  him  sick 
almost  unto  death. 

Then  he  felt  two  soft  arms  about  his  neck  and  Madeline  whispered, 
"If  I  could— but  stay— with— you.  If  you— could  but— come— with— me. 
Oh  love — see — I  die — for — you — kiss — me — ."  Lloyd  pressed  his  lips  to 
hers  once,  twice,  thrice,  then  he  became  conscious  that  there  was  no 
answering  pressure  of  her  lips.  He  raised  himself  and  looked  at 
her— he  felt  her  pulse— he  chafed  her  hands;  he  became  excited  almost 
beyond  endurance.  "Doctor!  help— my  God,  she  is  dead!"  and  witfo 
a  terrible  cry  of  unutterable  anguish  he  fell  across  the  bed.  When 
the  Doctor  entered  it  was  a  lifeless  form  which  he  raised.  The  dead 
woman's  last  wish  had  been  gratified  and  she  did  take  him  with  her 
to  the  other  world. 

—Lizzie  Jeanee  Weithoff. 
Seymour. 


BEAUTY. 

A  form  like  the   swaying  willow, 

With  grace  in  every  motion — 
A  bosom  like  the  stirring  billow 

Of  the  gently  swelling  ocean. 

Tresses  like  the  sunshine  straying 

O'er  leaves — all  auburn  turning, 
Which  the  zephyr's  gentle  playing 

Fans  into  a  hazy  burning. 

Eyes,  where  'neath  the  dusky  lashes, 

Drooped  with  languid,  graceful  sweeping, 

The  lightning's  brilliant  dazzling  flashes 
In  the  darkness  must  be  sleeping. 

Lips  like  a  rose  with  dewdrops  dripping, 
Crimsoned  by  the  sun's  warm  kisses, 

From  whose  sweet  moisture  love  is  sipping 
The  thrilling  nectar  of  life's  blisses. 

Teeth  which  gleam  with  pearly  splendor 

When   bright   smiles   the    lips   are  wreathing — 

And  in  communion  sweet  and  tender 
The  soul  its  love  is  softly  breathing. 

A  brow  like  the  lily's   whiteness, 

A  throat  of  curving  marble, 
Cheeks  of  carnation  brightness, 

A  voice  like  the  nightingale's  warble. 

And  then — ah,  lovely  creature, 

If  goodness  be  thy  duty, 
And  virtue  shines  from  ev'ry  feature, 

I  will  truly  call  thee  ''Beauty." 

—Rose  Cave  Gould. 
F.vansville. 


SOLDIERS'  AND  SAILORS'  MONUMENT. 


What  means  this  mighty  tribute  carved  with  shapes 

in  garb  of  War? 
What  means  this  pile  of  stone  high  heaped?     What 

is  it  builded  for? 
Does    if   typify   a    Union    from    the    depths   of   chaos 

wrought, 

And  the  lives  splashed  out  in  crimson  in  the  awful  bat 
tles  fought? 
Does   it   speak   alone   of  lives   dashed   out   on   sunny 

southern  fens ; 
Of  souls  cramped — sickened — starved — that  fled  from 

reeking  prison   pens? 
Is  it  only  to  the  victors  furloughed  to  their  last  sweet 

sleep, 
In  camp  in   God's  own   country  where  the  angels 

sentry  keep? 


Rather  let  it  tell  the  loved  ones  who  are  left  to  mourn 

the  loss, 
They  shall  meet  them  at  the  river — they  are  waiting 

just  across. 
In  a  bivouac  of   slumber  on   the  bright   and   shining 

shore, 
Where  the  muskets'  spiteful  rattle  breaks  the  echoes 

nevermore ; 
\Vhere  the  flags  of  truce  are  flying  and  the  war-drum 

is  at  rest, 
Where  gaping  wounds  by  angel  hands  have  tenderly 

been  dressed ; 
Where   the   long   forced-march    is   ended,   and   where 

wars  have  ceased  to  be, 

And  the  men  who  marched  with     Sherman     are     en 
camped  with  those  of  Lee. 

— Carl  Anderson. 

Spencer. 


PEACE  WHERE  IT  RESTETH. 


In  the  wild  untrampled  forest,  where  no  human  foot 

yet  strayed, 

No  desecrating  hand,  its  blasting  touch  hath  laid  ; 
Where  quairt  trees  stand  as  they  ever  stood, 
A  home  to  endless  birds  and  yield  their  fruit  as  food, 
The  fret-work  of  the  branches,  aloft  anent  the  sky 
Gives  glimpses  of  the  heavens  and  the  radiant  light 

on  high, 

And  noble,  dauntless  brute  life  in  absence  of  all  fear, 
In  soothing   words    it   whispers,      "God's      peace,     it 

resteth  here." 

— Percy   Henry   Clifford. 
Elwood, 


HEAVENLY  VOICES. 


I  jest   sorter   like  to  hear 

Young  people  at  their  singin', 

It  makes  me  feel  so  good  and  queer 
My  blood  comes  up  a  springin'. 

Those  tender  voices  low  and  sweet, 
So  chaste  and  pure  a  soundin', 

Filled  with  love  and  joy  complete, 
Sets  the  echoes  reboundin.' 

I  once,  well  sorter  jis  for  fun, 
A  country  school  went  a  visitin/ 

I  soon  found  out,  as  they  begun, 
The  music  worth  the  listening 

Then  let  us  sing,  oh  let  us  sing, 
Nor  want  to  change  our  station, 

And  from  our  hearts  our  voices  ring, 
Tis  songs   that  make  our  nation. 

Oh  youthful  voice,  I  yearn  for  thee, 

With  melodies  so  lovin', 
Oh  youthful  voice  come  back  to  me 

Sweet  voice,  so  near  like  heaven. 

— Lawrence  Ashby. 
Oakland  City. 


SPRING  LOVE  SONG. 

There's  a  gay  little  spring  song  ringing, 
And   ring,   little   warbling   song! 

For  my  heart  is  the  whole  day  singing; 
Is  singing  the  whole  day  long. 

By  the  beauty  of  each  wee  flower, 
The  flowers  that  hide  in  the  dell, 

By  the  rustling  of  leaves  in  my  bower, 
The  harmonious  rise  and  swell ! 

In  the  dancing  and  sparkling  sunshine, 
In  the  twitter  of  each  young  bird, 

In  the  tiny  voices  of  spring  time, 
Are  melodies  myriad  heard ! 

To  my  love,  to  my  love  I'm  clinging; 

And  ring,  little  warbling    song! 
For  my  heart  is  the  whole  day  singing, 

Is  singing  the  whole  day  long! 

— Florence  Riddick  Boys. 
South  Bend. 


STARS  OF  1902. 

Ye  stars  of  nineteen  two, 
Bright  gems  of  the  ocean  sky. 
Gleams  of  light ;  that  shine  by  night, 
To  gladden  the  cheerless  eye. 

Ye  stars  of  nineteen  two! 

So  old  and  yet  so  new, 

Long  have  ye  shown  and  blessing  known 

In  the  azure  home  of  blue. 

Ye  stars  of  nineteen  two, 

All  set  in  lineless  space, 

Moving  sublime,  and  moving  in  time, 

And  running  the  boundless  race. 

Ye  gentle  kindlv  stars! 
Who  placed  these  jewels  there? 
Why  do  they  stay,  nor  move  away? 
Such  diamonds  rich  and  rare. 

Ye  gentle  lovely  stars ! 
A  wise  hand  fixed  thy  stay, 
Circling  round,  so  thou  are  bound, 
To  move  both  night  and  day. 

Ye  gentle,  beautiful  stars! 
In   thee  we  see  the  hand, 
Filling  our  cup,  and  leading  us  up, 
To  a  fairer,  brighter  land. 

—Francis  Walker. 


New  Albany. 


REFORMATION. 


If  all  mankind  would  be  content 
And  stop  this  sordid  greed  for  gain, 

The  world  would  lose  its'  discontent 
And  peace  once  more  would  reign. 

No  more,  with  searching  inquisition, 

Should  friend  greet  friend  in  silent  scorn, 

But  in  the  form  of  higher  recognition, 
The  faith  of  all  good  will  be  born. 

No  more  with  features  grim  and  solemn 
Might  warriors  wear  the  belt  of  gold, 

Nor  step  with  measured  tread  in  column 
To  fife  and  drum's  fierce  music-rolled. 

Why !  oft  the  moon  hath  turned  her  sight 
From  earth's  great  store  of  human  woe, 

Caused  by  the  living  fount  of  right 
Being  trampled  under  foot  so  low. 

The  high  apex  of  man's  ambition 
Should  be  to  aid  the  human  race. 
To  check   each  thought  of  gross  temptation 
And  to  let  the  good  roll  on  apace. 

And  happy  be  that  distant  day, 

AY  hen  friend  to  friend  united 
Shall  roll  greed's  barrier  from  the  way 

And  have  these  dark  wrongs  righted. 

So  let  us  fight  for  freedom's  right, 
Until    the   black   flag's    down, 
And  he,  that  first  discerns  the  light, 
May  wear  the  victor's  crown. 

Berton  Ditzcnberger. 
Whitestown. 


IN  THE  MOON-LIGHT. 


In  the  moon-light,  balmy  moon-light, 
Spring-time  breezes  sighing  low, 

It  was  then  I  first  beheld  you — 
And  I  loved  you  then,  I  know. 

In  the  moon-light,  glorious  moon-light, 
Mid  the  roses  sweet  with  dew, 

It  was  then  you  said  you  loved  me ; 
Then  I  pledged  my  life  to  you. 

In  the  moon-light,  winter  moon-light, 
As  the  Christmas  fire-sides  glow, 

Sparkles  on  the  glitt'ring  jewel 

That  sealed  our  vow  six  months  ago. 

Sit  I  waiting  for  your  coming, 
On  our  happy  marriage  day ; 

Waiting,  yes,  your  bride  is  waiting ; 
Haste,  oh,  absent  one,  I  pray. 

In  the  moon-light,  cruel  moon-light, 
How  it  pierces  thro'  and  thro' 

Shining  on  your  death-still  figure, 
On  your  marble  face  so  true. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  broken,  broken, 
Yet  yon  moon  shines  calmly  on, 

And  its  cold  rays  seem  to  mock  me 
For  the  joys  forever  gone. 

In  the  moon-light,  lonely  moon-light, 

Winter  winds  are  wailing  low, 
By  your  grave  I  bow  in  anguish, 
Bitter  tears  in  torrents  flow ; 
In  mv  loneliness  I'm  wond'ring, 
Wond'ring  why  God  willed  it  so. 

—  Varina.  Rstellr  Miller. 
Rising  Sun. 


DISSOLUTION. 

The  soul  has  left  its  house  of  clay 
And  o'er  it  hovers  in  farewell ; 
The  lips  so  often  wont  to  pray 
Are  mutely  silent  'neath  the  spell 
Which  Death  casts  over  mortal  life. 
The  eyes  that  once  were  quick  to  ste 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Are  darkened  with  the  mystery 
Of  what  it  is  to  live  and  die. 
The  hands,  once  active  in  the  strife, 
And  never  closed  to  human  needs, 
Are  folded  on  the  peaceful  breast. 
The  heart  so  thrilled  with  noble  deeds 
And  truest  love,  is  lulled  to  rest. 
The  weary  feet  which  forward  trod 
The  path 'where  sins  and  sorrows  met, 
Are  still  at  last— such  calm  repose; 
And  stilled  are  joy  and  all  regret ; 
The  silent  heart  no  passion  knows— 
The  earth-five  soul  returns  to  God. 

M.  Winifred   Hamlin 


Warsaw. 


15 


"HE  IS  RISEN." 

The  silver  clouds  on  high  are  parting, 
And  sunshine  from  the  sky  is  darting; 

We  hear  the  joyous  ring  of  voices, 
For  in  this  thought  the  world  rejoices 
He  is  Risen ! 

In  the  darkened  grave  His  garments  lie 

And  are  viewed  by  the  mourners  passing  by 

Yet  the  Crucified  now  reigns  on  high, 
And    angels'  voices  echo  the  cry  : 
He  is  Risen ! 

And  still  we  hear  this  glad  acclaim. 

For  praise  to  Him  is  our  great  aim ; 
Then  ring,  ye  bells  of  Easter,  ring, 

And  gladly  with  thee  we  will  sing: 
He  is  Risen ! 

The  lillies  white  and  pure  and  sweet, 
This  joyous    Easter  morn   we  greet 

Upon  the  altar  where  as  'tis  meet, 
Our  Lord  for  mercy  we  entreat — 
He  is  Risen ! 

And  years,  like  clouds,  may  o'er  us  roll, 
These  bells  life's  parting  hour  may  toll, 

But  like  unto  that  Savior  dear— 
The  robes  of  death  we  need  not  fear : 
He  is  Risen  ! 

— Gertrude    May    Malmesbury. 
Washington. 


AUTUMN  LEAVES. 

Sakes  alive!  if  I  had  my  way 
When  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall, 
You  bet  I'd  just  let  'em  all  lay, 
Wouldn't  rake  'em   up  at  all. 

Where's  the  man  who  don1 1  remember, 
How  he  used  to  romp  and  run 
Barefoot  way  up  in  November, 
Hunting  nuts  and  having  fun. 

Leaves  knee  deep  and  still  a  fallin', 
As  the  frosty  mornings  came, 
Crows  a  cawin'  and  a  callin', 
Almost  speak  a  feller's  name. 

I  can  almost  hear  the  gruntin' 
Of  the  hogs  a  rootin'  'round, 
Underneath  the  trees  a  huntin' 
For  the  mast  upon  the  ground. 

There's  a  somethin'  'bout  the  rustle 
Of  the  fall  leaves  float-in'  down, 
That  brings  back   the   boyhood  hustle, 
When  the  woods  were  rich  and  brown. 

Makes  me  blush  to  think  of  burnin' 
Colors  from  the  Master  hand, 
Some  bright  crimson,  some  just  turnin' 
Leavin'  streaks  of  green  there,  and 

Others  there  are  clear  bright  yellow 
With  the  golden  sunset  hue, 
Like  the  ripening  fruit  whose  mellow, 
Tints  are  shining  through  and  through. 

Yes,  I'd  leave  'em  where  they're  fallin' 
From  the  frost,  I'd  let  'em  lie  f 

Soft  and  loose  like,  where  they're  callin 
For  such  boys  as  you  and  I. 

— Francis  Marion  Van  Pelt. 
Anderson. 


CAN  I  ENJOY  A  JOKE? 

You  ask  me,  can  I  stand  a  joke? 

You  should  have  tried  me,  and  not  broke 

The  subject  so  abrupt. 
Enjoy  a  joke?  indeed  I  do — 
Yes,  maybe  just  as  well  as  you ; 

Please  now,  don't  give  it  up. 

Let's  hear  your  joke,  why  do  you  hold 
It  back  from  me?  come   now,  be  bold — 

I'm  anxious  now  to  hear. 
You  should  not  hold  it  back  from  me — 
I'm  full  of  curiosity  ; 

You've  nothing  more  to  fear. 

I  think  a  joke,  when  it  is  pure— 
No  other  kind  you'd  make,  I'm  sure— 

Is  oil  upon  the  waves 
Of  any  life,  that's  full  of  woe. 
Now,  tell  me,  friend,  is  that  not  so? 

My  soul  for  this  thing  craves. 

A  joke,  when  full  of  jolly  wit, 

Is  always  sure  to  make  a  hit. 
I  can  hear  that  laugh 

It  always  makes — and  when  they  part, 

With  pleasant  smiles  and  happy  heart- 
Each  his  or  her  own  path. 

It  vexes  me  to  see  a  man 

Or  woman,  who,  that  never  can 

Make  or  enjoy  a  joke. 
God  pity  them,  there's  something  wrong 
About  their   natures— if  they're   strong. 
With  such  I  will  not  joke. 

—John  Zach  Macdonald. 
Brazil. 


LOOKING  BACKWARD. 

Oh,  where  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood? 

Oh,  where  are  the  visions  ot  old? 
The   fancies   in    colors   of   rainbows — 

The  castles  all  burnished  with  gold? 

Oh,  where  are  the  streams  that  in  childhood 
Ran  laughing  and  gay  through  the  mead, 

By  which  I  have  lingered  at  sunset, 

And  watched  the  bright  waves'  whirling  speed  ? 

Oh,  where  is  the  old  rustic  park-seat, 

And  the  sweet-scented  air  and  the  flowers, 

Where  wild  birds  and  bees  and  companions 
Have   whiled   away  many  bright  hours? 

Oh,  where  are  the  riches  I've  dreamed  of, 
The  gold  which  was  hoarded  away? 

Child's  fancy  had  made  me  King  Midas, 
Who's  stolen  youth's  yellow  display? 

Alas,  the  bright  bubble  is  bursted ; 

The  nectar  of  childhood  is  spilt; 
The  sword  of  cold-blooded  reality 

Has  been  thrust  in  my  heart  to  the  hilt. 

But  why  should  we  grieve  at  such  fancies, 

For  childhood's  the  play  time  of  life? 
Man's  pleasure   is  found  but   in   action, 
And  contentment  reposes  in  strife. 

— Pius    Lankford 
Martz. 


Hope, 


CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT. 

Go  back  to  the  dim  grey  dawn, 

Of  the  earthly  past  and  see 
How  God   in  dealing  then  with  men 

Had   different  ways   than   thcc. 

He  never  thought  that  mortal  man 
As  judge  would  seek  his  shrine, 

Or  doubt  the  words  he  wisely  used 
That  vengeance  shall  be  mine. 

I  know  he  said  "Life  for  life," 

And  kill  not  for  my  sake. 
And  of  the  breath  that  great   God  gave, 

No  other  one  shall  take. 

If  this  applies  to  those  who  kill, 

With  maligned  hearts  untrue, 
It  means  as  well  their  punishment 

By  a  higher  power  than  you. 

If    God   meant   that   Cain   should   live 
And  for  his  brother's  death  go  free, 

Why   would  he  change  the   plan  since   then, 
By  killing  you  and  me? 

For  near  the  Garden  of  Eden 

Where  the  flowers  bloom  and  grow, 

The  seeds  of  crime  were  first  sown  there, 
With   Abel's   blood   you   know. 

The  past  has  said,  the  assassin  craves, 
More  than  the  world  can  give,  ^ 

And  when  he  steeps  his  hand  in  crime, 
Would'  rather  die  than  live. 

— Ollie  Spaugn, 


DISPOSTION. 

As  we  all  know  there  is  a  theory  abroad  in  the  world 
that  a  person's  disposition  cannot  be  changed.  This 
theory  is  partly  false,  and  partly  true.  I  never  knew 
a  person,  nor  one  never  lived  who  by  the  force  of  res 
olution  could  change  their  disposition.  But,  by  God's 
assistance  a  person's  disposition  can  be  changed.  I 
know  people,  yes  the  pages  of  history  are  teeming 
with  them,  who  after  their  conversion  were  exactly 
the  opposite  in  disposition  to  what  they  were  before. 
The  fact  then  is  apparent,  that  by  faith  in  God  and 
a  willingness  to  observe  His  ordinances  and  obey  His 
commands  we  may  have  the  dispositon  of  Satan  taken 
out  of  onr  hearts  ami  that  of  Jesus  Christ  planted 
therein.  Believe  this  or  not,  it  is  true,  and  if  this 
is  not  done  we  will  never  see  heaven.  I  wish  to  ask 
you  what  is  more  desirable  that  a  pleasant  disposition. 
Without  it  we  can  neither  be  happy  ourselves,  nor 
make  others  happy.  I  have  heard  people  who  are  im 
pulsive  and  quick  tempered  say :  "I  know  I  have  a  very 
bad  disposition.  At  times  my  temper  appears  to  be 
almost  uncontrollable;  but  I  try  to  govern  it,  and  I 
think  within  the  course  of  a  few  years'  time  I  will 
be  able  to  govern  it  perfectly."  All  persons  holding 
such  views  are  greatly  deceived,  and  will  in  the  end 
of  the  battle  awaken  to  the  sad  realization  that  their 
temper  has  come  out  more  than  conqueror  and  that 
all  efforts  to  control  it  have  been  of  no  avail.  A  dis 
position  which  is  not  corrected  by  the  grace  of  God 
will  gradually  grow  worse  instead  of  better  as  the 
years  roll  by.  But  if  Christ  implants  within  us  a  new 
disposition  we  shall  gradually  grow  better  and  better 
each  succeeding  day  of  our  life. 

— William  Arthur  Berlin. 
Veedersburg. 


THE  UNFINISHED  SCULPTURE  OF  MICHAEL 
ANGELO. 

Above  the  wrecks  of  time,  these  figures  stand 
In  San  Lorenzo's  sacristy  and  wait 

The  final  strokes  of  an  impetuous  hand 
That  toils  no  more  against  a  cruel  fate. 

Upon  these  images,  reclining  here, 

(As  weary  for  the  master's  tardy  feet) 

A  world  of  faces  gaze  from  year  to  year 
And  feel  the  sadness  of  the  incomplete. 

Here  where  the  crisp  Carrara  clings  and  hides 
The  perfect  outline  of  th'  emerging  limb, 

The  imprint  of  the  chisel's  stroke  abides ; 

And  shall  when  flickering  altar  lights  grow  dim. 

Unfinished?     Nay,  had  we  but  eyes  to  see 
With  his  keen  eyes,  the  image  cased  in  stone, 

We  might,  as  he  his  Moses,  strike  that  knee 
And  bid  the  marble  turn  to  flesh  and  bone. 

But  we  are  the  unfinished  and,  behold, 

Stand  here  with  dross  unpurged  from  soul  and 
heart ; 

We  wait  the  touches  of  a  hand  to  mold 
And  model  us  to  forms  of  perfect  art. 

As  fair  Vittoria  to  great  Angelo, 

Came  with  that  touch  of  love  ineffable, 

That  drew  sweet  sonnets  from  those  lips  aglow, 
And  shaped  th'  unfinished  statue  to  the  full. 

There  is  a  power  sent  from  the  Infinite, 
Be't  love  or  sorrow,  dark  adversity, 

Or  some  vague  shadowy  hand  we  know  not  quite, 
Can  fill  the  cup  of  life  and  satisfy. 

And  so  I  love  to  think,  some  aeons  hence, 

These,  our  soul-statues  here,  shall  be  complete, 
And  what  to  us  was  but  a  crude  offence 
Will  be  made  perfect,  head  and  hands  and  i 

—Frank  Ingold  Walker. 
Colorado  Springs,  Colorado. 


THE  BLOWING  UP  OF  PENELOPE. 

J?rgZx£r*&3- 


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16 


WOODLANDS. 

Golden   gleams   the   summer  days 

In  field  and  woodlands  fair, 
Golden  beams  the  buttercups 

In  the  corner  over  there. 

Shady  streamlet  flowing 

Gently  through  the  dell, 
Woodland   flowers  bending 

Where  a  gleam  of  sunshine  fell. 

Mossy  banks  and  water  cresses, 

Ferns  and  pussy-willow, 
Cool  and  fresh  and  soft  and  nice, 

Would  make  a  downy  pillow. 

Clean  and  white  the   pebbles 

Washed  by  the  waters'  flow, 
Of  the  clear  and  shady  streamlet, 

Where  the  shadows  come  and  go. 

Minnows  sleek  and  shiny 

Darting  to  and  fro, 
In    nature's    real    aquarium 

Noiselessly  they  go. 

Cunning  little  creatures 

Gliding  side  by  side, 
Full  of  quick  surprises, 

For  soon  away  they'll  hide. 

Birds  all  singing  gaily, 
Violets  at  your  feet, 
Make  a  perfect  woodland 

Which  could  be  no  more  complete. 

—Flora  Williams  Wood. 
Elkhart. 


"JOHN  SCREWTON'S  DREAM/1 

"Everything  is  wrong!  Margins,  next  to  nothing. 
Rates  of  interest,  beggarly.  Hours  of  labpr  shrinking. 
More  pay !  Robbed  from  morning  to  night  to  sup 
port  half  the  world  in  idleness !  What  is  capital  to 
do?"  and  with  a  sigh  that  sounds  through  the  elegant 
room  like  a  wail,  the  troubled  rich  man  sinks  back  into 
the  cushions  of  his  easy  chair  and  lowers  with  a  look 
that  is  not  resignation  on  the  stolid  carvings  of  furni 
ture  and  mantel  that  leer  back  at  him  through  the  sub 
dued  lamp  light. 

Mr.  John  Screwton,  ladies  and  gentlement,  allow  me. 
Self-made  man  is  John.  Prides  himself  on  it.  "Old 
Screw"  they  call  him  down  where  the  furnace  roars 
and  the  wheels  hum.  Practical  man  of  business  is 
John.  Knows  a  good  thing  when  he  sees  it.  No  hum 
bug  about  him.  Bank  account  bloated  like  a  London 
Alderman.  Name  worth  a  million  on  the  street.  And 
now  on  this  Christmas  eve,  when  all  the  world,  from 
King  to  beggar,  stands  tip-toe  in  anticipation  ready 
to  find  all  good  in  the  day  of  days,  John's  mind  is 
troubled  and  his  heart  hardened,  that  everything  is 
going  wrong. 

Bless  your  shriveled,  flinty  old  heart,  John  Screw- 
ton  !  the  world  is  all  right — better,  happier,  wiser,  each 
succeeding  Christmas.  You  are  all  wrong,  John,  but 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can  lift  the  scales  from 
your  eyes. 

There  he  goes  again,  this  discontented  Midas.  Hear 
him  !  while  the  wind  whistles  around  the  street  corners 
and  sends  the  eddying  snow  driving  into  rosy  happy 
faces  that  bend  to  the  blast  and  hurry  on,  flying  from 
shop  to  shop,  perching  here  and  there  like  belated 
snow  birds  and  at  last  loaded  down  with  suggestive 
packages,  home  to  roost  in  a  twitter  of  delight  and 
mystery.  Hear  "Old  Screw,"  I  say,  surrounded  with 
all  that  can  make  life  worth  living — except  content. 

"All  wrong,"  says  Screw.  "The  world  is  out  of 
joint."  He  does  not  know  he  has  quoted  an  old  master 
or  he  would  take  it  back,  for  John  Screwton,  "self- 
made  man,"  is  original  or  nothing.  "All  wrong  and 
all  unjust ;  but  I  have  always  dealt  justly,  however,  1 
have  been  dealt  by"  (the  hoary  old  sinner  is  lying  to 
himself  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  chamber.)  "Ah  well ! 
the  cross  for  the  crown — heig-h-ho !" 

— James  Sargent  Ostrander. 
Richmond. 


THE  GOOD  SHIPS  AT  SEA. 


Each  soul  has  a  ship  on  the  ocean's  wide  breast, 

With  freight  from  a  wonderful  store  ; 
But  no  one  can  say  if  this  ship  of  the  blest 

Shall  ever  furl  sail  at  the  shore. 
We  watch  from  the  shore  of  the  sea's  mystic  side 
And  hope  that  some  light  as  a  beacon  may  guide 
This  cargo  from  evils  that  often  betide. 

To  some  who  have   hoped  the  long  nightwatches 
through, 

When  dawn  breaks  and  lulls  the  ebb-tide 
And  over  the  waters,  against  the  dark  blue, 

Their  vessels  to  anchor  shall  ride, 
May  come  a  reward  for  the  vigils  of  night, 
The  shadow  of  evil  be  turned  into  light, 
And  wrongs  of  oppression  give  way  to  the  right. 

But  often  a  mist  veils  hope's  beautiful  star, 
And  breakers  beat  wild  on  the  strand, 

And  bear  in  their  bosom  that  breaks  on  the  bar 
And  lashes  the  golden  sea  sand 

The  wreck  of  a  vessel.     Some  heart  will — ah  me! 

Look  again  nevermore  o'er  a  mystical  sea 

Where  others  may  view  shining  sails  floating  free. 

— Frank  Oskin. 
Gentivville, 


THE  HIDDEN  WAY. 

So  much  that  goes   to  make  life   pure  and   grand 
Lies  close  within  the  reach  of  every  hand, 

If  we   but  seek  to  find  the   hidden  key 

Which  ope's  the  door  to  life's  great  mystery. 

Seeking  we  find  and  finding  grope  the  way, 
Till  noontide's  glint  obliterates  the  gray. 

'Tis  but  a  span  across  the  hidden  way. 

'Tis  only  darkest  near  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  once  night's  gate  upon  its  hinges  swings 

And  morning  brings  us  hope  of  better  things 
We  look  not  back  at  sorrows  left  behind, 

The  hidden  way  across,  new  joy  we  find. 

'Tis  only  just  a  rustic  bridge  to  cross 

"Or  stream  embedded  in  a  bank  of  moss," 

A  tottering  pair  of  bars  to  lay  aside, 
To  vanish  envy,  selfishness  and  pride. 

The  hidden  way  beyond,  our  cross  laid  down  ; 
The  key  of  Love  our  scepter,  peace,  our  crown. 

— Mary  Haynes  Richey. 
Elwood. 


THREE  CONQUERORS. 


Awake !  the  beautiful  dawn 

Comes  with  the  sun's  golden  rays, 
And  night  retires  with  banners  worn, 

Mid  all  her  hosts  of  stars  ; 
From  tree  and  shrub  the  shadows  fly, 

While  quietly  the  moon  has  tied 
Before  the  conqueror. 


The  herald  of  the  day 

Above  the  hills  appears, 
And  joyous  birds  begin  their  song 

While  dew  drops  disappear; 
And  man  awoke  to   daily  task, 

Goes  forth  to  till  the  soil 
And  he  is  conqueror. 

Truth  chases  error's  night 

And  drives  the  gloom  away,        ^        ^ 
And  whispers,  "let  there  now  be  light, 

The  dawn  of  righteous  day. 
And  slaves  arise  and  fetters  break. 

While  cowering  tyrants  fearful  shake, 
For  truth  is  conqueror. 

— Ben  Ed  Doane, 


Jasper. 


MY  RICHEST  GRACE. 

When  first   I  gave   my   heart  to   God, 
With  all  resigned  unto   his  care ; 

I  felt  the  persecuting  rod, 

My  Saviour's  sufferings  to  share. 

Yet  thus  I  found  the  richest  grace, 

A  richer  thing  I  never  knew  ; 
'Twas  perfect  love  for  Adam's  race, 

It  seemed  a  wonder   yet  'twas  true. 

My  foes  prepared  a  dreadful  storm, 
We  stood  before  it  face  to  face; 

They  tried  to   fill   us  with  alarm, 

But  weakened  soon  before  this  grace. 

Ah  !  richest  grace ;  thou  lovely  one, 
Thy  sister's  fair  but  none  like  thee. 

While  Faith  may  conque-  thou  wilt  crown 
And  oil  each  act  with  grace  for  me. 

My  actions  rough  without  thine  oil. 
May  hinder  souls,  destroy  them,  too. 

And  thus  for  want  of  thee  may  spoil 
The  work  my  Lord  designed  to  do. 

But  when  my  heart  is  full  of  thee, 

How  near  and  dear  each  soul  will  seem. 

'Twill  make  me  love  my  enemy- 
Love  them  will  be  my  leading  theme. 

'Twill  make  me  kind  to  friend  or  foe. 
I'll  honor  them  with  due  respect. 
But  should  I  fail  pure  love  to  show, 
Then  sad  the  fruits  of  my  neglect. 

— David  Burke  Moore, 
Winslow. 


TRANSITION. 

Where  is  the  dashing  youth  who  for  a  season 
Surveyed  the  world  with  mirthful,  laughing  eye, 

Scorning  the  sage  advice  of  hoary  Reason, 
As  with  unheeding  feet  he  hurried  by? 

Ah  !  here  his  semblance,  here  his  form  and  features, 
Here  the  same  eye,  but  how  subdued  the  glance! 

Here  the  rash  feet,  how  slow  the  pace  he  teaches 
Those  members  once  so  nimble  in  the  dance ! 

Just  through  the  open  door  of  sober  Manhood, 
He  stops  with  faltering  feet  and  failing  heart, 

Gazing,  appalled,  as  sudden  breaks  upon  him, 
The  broken  pathway  where  his  feet  must  start. 

As  on  the  flowery  path  of  Youth  he  lingered, 
How  distant  seemed  that  fateful  portal  then, 

How  bright  the  baubles  that  he  idly  fingered, 
How  far  his  pathway  lay  from  that  of  Men, 

The  glittering  joys  that  once  his  steps  attracted, 
Where  has  their  golden  luster  vanished  now? 

The  laurel  wreath  that  Maiden's  fingers  twined, 
Falls  faded  and  unfelt  upon  his  brow. 

He  feels  no  more  the  sweet  intoxication, 

Which  thoughtless  follies  once  were  wont  to  bring, 

He  sees,  uncovered  by  the  downy  billows, 

The   rocks,   discovered,   where  the   sirens   sing. 

As,  backward  gazing  from  the  brazen  threshold, 
He  tracks  the  wavering  pathway  once  so  bright, 

He  views  the  hidden  pitfalls  close  beside  it, 

And,  shuddering,  turns  his  vision  from  the  sight. 

One  quick  regret,  a  pang  for  but  a  moment, 
A  forward  glance  that  does  the  future  scan, 

With  laughter  changed  to  firm  determination, 
The  dashing,  fiery  youth  becomes  a  MAN. 

— Clayton    Ray   Wise. 
Chesterton. 


THE  TRIUNE  GOD. 

God,  thrice  holy,  throned  in  glory, 

Robed  in  threefold  mystery, 
Open  to  our  hearts  the  story 
Of  Redemption's  history. 

God  the  Father,  who  created 

Man  upon  the  earth  to  be 
Image  to   Himself  related, 

Lead  him  on  from  self  to  Thee. 

God  the  Son,  man's  only  Savior, 

Thou  hast  brought  salvation  near, 

Make  us  daily  in  behavior 

Like  Thee  while  we  tarry  here, 

God  the   Spirit,  life  and  power, 
New   create  within   our  heart, 

Comfort  us  in  death's  dark  hour, 
And  prepare  us  to  depart. 

God  thrice  holy  be  the  glory, 
Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost, 

For  redemption's  wondrous  story, 
Sung  by  Saint  and  Angel  host. 

— Jacob  Dyke. 
Remington. 


"AFTERMATH." 

'Twas  a  song  that  I  caught  for  a  moment ; 

1  heard  it  but  once,  and  was  thrilled  ; 
The  song  and  the  singer  have  vanished, 

But  my  heart  with  one  strain  yet,  is  filled. 
One  strain  of  that  song  seems  to  haunt  me ; 

I'm  humming  it  o'er  and  again ; 
Unconsciously  tunning  a  fragment 

Of  melody  from  that  refrain. 

The  flower  that   I   gathered   soon  withered; 

I  could  not  but  cast  it  away ; 
I  prized  it  fulwelj,  but  'twas  fragile; 

A  life  that  could  last  but  a  day. 
But  tho'  fading  and  passing  so  quickly, 

Its  presence  remains,  for  my  room 
Is  filled  with  a  joy  it  has  left  me, 

Its   delicate,  subtile  perfume. 

So,    Honore,    like   the    song   and    the   flower. 

Came  into  my  life  for  a  day, 
And  thrilled  me  with  tenderest  pleasure, 

Then   like   them,   she  hastened   away. 
And  all  that  remains  of  her  passing 

Are  perfume  and  fragment  of  song, 
That  haunt  me,  and  thrill  me  with  joy,  tho' 

The  flower  and  singer  are  gone- 

—Chester  Lee  Fidlar. 
Terre  Haute. 


TO  A  WHIPPOORWILL. 

O  spirit  with  the  plaintive,  wailing  song, 

Come,  lead  me  to  the  light,  a  higher  path; 
I'm  weary,  and  I  sob  for  cruel  wrong: 

My  love  outlives  the  stroke  and  curse  of  wrath. 
Sweet  harmony  is  sweeter  as  it  dies ; 

Our  tenderest  thoughts  lie  mute  upon  the  tongue; 
Angelic  Pity  speaks  with  pleac'ing  eyes, — 

And  themes  of  holiest  truth  remain  unsung. 
But  grief  is  best  interpreted  in  tone: 

The  pang  that  searches  deep  demands  a  cry  ; 
The  suffering  soul's  expression  is  a  moan, — 

And  Sorrow's  saddest  off-spring  is  a  sigh. 
Among  the  countless  spheres  is  there  one  place 

Unknown  to  greed  and  pride  and  pain? 
Where  goodness  glorifies  each  faultless  face, 

And  tenderness  and  mercy  ever  reign? 
Man  is  a  dual  mystery — matter,  mind — 

Creation's  failure,  yet  a  work  sublime ; 
A  mental  monarch,  crowned  with  light,  but  blind ; 

In  virtue  g/eat,  but  greater  still  in  crime. 
Mankind  needs  faith  to  meet  each  social  shock — 

A  mighty  faith,  like  mountains  mid  the  storm; 
Then  love  would  lead  and  fold  us  as  a  flock, 

With  strong  humanity  repelling  harm. 
The  force  that  forms  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

That    swings    the   world   and    holds    the    deathless 

spheres, 
Builds  up  in  beauty  souls  that  softly  yield — 

Like  Christ  they  rise  from  agony  and  tears. 
Our  dreams  are  mental  dramas  • — thought   is   sight — 

And  thought  survives  though  countless  ages  roll ; 
And  sleep  lets  in  the  spiritual  light, 

Which  numbs  the  body,  but  awakes  the  soul. 
In  nature's  heart  a  holy  lesson  lies — 

'Tis  taught  to  them  that  ask  with  fervent  breath- 
It  moves  in  silent  splendor  through  the  skies, 

And  blooms  and  breathes,  defying  time  and  death. 
O  melancholy  Minstrel  of  the  Night, 

I'll  leave  your  cloister  in  the  mournful  vale  ; 
I'll  seek  the  smile  and  loveliness  of  light, 

And  thus  forget  your  loud  and  piercing  wail. 

— Richard  Rawlings  Waters. 
Laurel. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  ROBIN. 

A   brown   bird    with    red-winged   breast, 
Sitting  quietly  in  its  nest, 
Build  where,  its  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Twigs  of  apple-blossoms  blow. 

Nature's  sweetest  rhymes  are  made, 
In  the  pleasant  orchard  shade, 
As  white  petals  fluttering  fall, 
Rhyming  with  the  robin's  call. 

When  Christ,  the  legends  say, 

Bore  the  woe  of  that  last  day, 

And   forgot  with  anguish   great, 

And  none  His  dying  thirst  would  sate, 

Then   the  silent  air  was   stirred, 
By  the  flight  of  a  brown  bird, 
As  in  Olive  garden  nigh, 
It  had  caught  His  broken  cry. 

And  from  Bethel  pool, 

One  sweet  drop  of  water  cool, 

In  its  bill  the  bird  had  caught, 

And  with  pitying  love  had  brought. 

Down  it  settled,  softly   down, 
Past  the  bitter  thorny  crown, 
And  to  ease  the  fevered  drouth, 
Laid  the  cool  drop  in  His  mouth. 

On  its  flight  the  robin's  breast, 
Against  the  wounded  hands  were  prest, 
Ever  since,  the  red-breast  stain, 
Over  its  tender  heart  has  lain. 

And  when  the  apple-blossoms  stir. 
Swift  we  hear  the  brown  wings  whir, 
And  the  bird  with  red-stained  oreast, 
Builds  in  all  our  hearts   its  nest. 

—Joseph  Frank  Honecker. 
Oak  Forest. 


THE  OLD  HOME. 

The  house  stands  as  it  always  did, 
It  brings  me   memories,   sweet. 

The  strange  face  though  that  greets  me 
Is  not  the  one   I  longed  to  meet. 

The  grass  upon  the  lawn  is  tall, 

There,  running  wild  the  rose, 
With  the  orange  blossoms  an  unkept  bush, 

Such    sights   my   eyes   disclose. 

The  arbor,  once  sweet-scented  and  cool, 

Is  suffering  from  decay. 
The  place  smells  foul  of  odious  weeds, 

That  drive  sweet  memories  away. 

The  garden  path,  so  neat  and  clean, 
Is  now  with  weeds  overgrown; 

While  the  garden  I  cannot  recognize 
As  the  garden,  once  my  own. 

Oh,  dear  old  home,  so  long  so  sweet, 

Swept  from  me  at  a  breath, 
With  everything  that  I  held  dear, 
Upon  sweet  mother's  death. 

— Clarence   Adrian   Joliff. 
East  Germantown. 


ADAM. 

Adam  was  a  majestic  being,  the  lord  of  the  earth  and  the  master 
to  whose  commands  all  creatures  pay  homage,  a  godlike  being, 
justly  so  called  the  offspring  of  the  skies.  He  was  truly  the 
handiwork  of  an  omnipotent  Architect,  for  only  an  heavenly  Archi 
tect  could  form  those  stout  and  well-knit  limbs  that  move  with  bold 
majestic  step,  those  skillful  hands  that  fulfill  the  mandates  of  his 
royal  mind  which  thrones  in  his  lofty  mien,  that  beautiful  oval 
face,  high  forehead,  flowing  flaxen  hair  hanging  down  over  his 
shoulders,  that  subtile,  sacred,  heavenly  soul  flashing  like  sparKs 
of  lightning  in  his  wonderful  steelblue  eyes,  the  iridescent  gems 
through  which  are  seen  the  sparkling  emanations  of  the  mind,  faith, 
hope,  love,  pride,  and  despair,  that  terrible  yet  musical  voice  wnicn 
like  the  lion's  rolls  in  rumbling  tones  down  the  valley  in  bold  defi 
ance  of  the  Great  Unknown,  who  had  dared  to  dally  with  Adam's 
own,  the  creature  of  his  bone  and  smew,  the  heavenly  borne  mate, 
of  whom  the  Master  had  said: — "This  is  thy  mate,  perish  all  who 
dare  to  touch  her." 

Like  the  lion  at  bay  Adamf  seemed  to  plead  to  Heaven's  offended 
Deity  to  point  out  to  him  the  Dastard  on  whom  to  quench  his  ire 
and  thus  blot  out  the  stain  on  Adam's  honor  and  pride.  The 
slender  cords,  from  head  to  feet,  quiver  with  wrath  and  hate;  the 
raddy  flood  bounds  through  the  body  and  flushes  his  manly  face 
with  eternal  hate  against  the  Dastard;  the  heart,  that  type  of  love, 
thumps  and  flutters  with  balked  ambition;  the  clenched  fists  pound 
the  air  as  if  threatening  the  unseen  foe,  terrible  only  because 
unseen. 

Stifling  the  terrible  passion  within  his  soul,  Adam  approached 
Eve  in  a  tender  and  soothing  manner,  and  taking  her  hand  in  a 
lover-like  way.  he  spake  in  a  soft  caressing  voice:  "How  can  I 
live  without  thee,  O,  my  Eve!  What  is  power,  what  is  happiness, 
what  is  life  without  thee!  This  great  Eden  would  be  but  a  solitude, 
a  longing  misery  without  my  sweet  companion.  Each  floral  charm, 
the  golden  fruit,  the  clinging  vine,  fair  emblem  of  our  love,  all 
would  but  remind  me  of  thy  fair  and  lovely  form.  Nay,  it  cannot 
be.  I  defy  not  the  Master,  I  dare  not  the  Unknown,  but  this  I  say, 
against  all  the  powers  of  all  the  worlds  I  will  stand  by  thee  to 
the  last  in  my  feeble  way,  whilst  there  is  but  a  spark  left  to  defend 
thee." 

And  drawing  Eve  to  his  sobbing  bosom  in  fond  embrace,  Adam 
continued:  "O  woman;  made  out  of  my  flesh  and  bone  nearest  my 
heart,  with  thee,  my  wife,  I  live  or  I  die.  With  thee  I  welcome 
grim  Death,  if  thou,  my  Eve,  must  die!  There  are  no  terrors  in 
store  for  me  except  to  be  parted  from  thee!  To  stay  with  thee  is 
the  hope  of  Man's  once  cheering  morn,  and  of  the  eve  of  Man's  sad 
dreary  life.  The  dark  and  dismal  grave  ends  thus  the  strife,  but 
it  will  not  come  to  thee  alone!" 

Thus  Adam  spake,  then  from  Eve's  outstretched  hand  he  takes 
the  fruit  and  eats  in  spite  of  God's  command,  welcoming  cruel  fate 
with  all  the  dire  misery  it  has  in  store  for  him,  caring  naught,  fear 
ing  nothing.  Like  the  lion  at  bay  Adam  defies  all. 

— Edward  James  Kempf. 
Jasper. 


MY  PICTURE. 

O  artist,  true,  come  paint  for  me, 
A  living  dream  of  long  ago ; 
A  mother,  fair,  and  sinless  babe, 
With  curling  locks  and  brow  of  snow. 

O  stretch  thy  spotless  canvas  wide, 
Upon    thy    easel's   gilded    frame, 
Where  first  the  tinge  of  morning  light, 
Will  cast  her  beams  of  quick'ning  flame. 

Upon  thy  pallet  mix  thy  paint, 
And   let  it   catch  the  virgin  hue 
Of  morning's  fresh  and  holy  light, 
That  dances  on  the  sparkling  dew. 

And  then  with  brush  of  finest  make, 
O  draw  my  image  of  the  pair ; 
Upon   their   lips   and    cheek   and  brow, 
Just  paint  the  breath  of  angels  there. 

Around  the  whole  a  halo  draw, 

The  penciled  sign  of  God  above ; 

To    show    that    those    beneath    its    light, 

Were  subjects  of  his  choicest  love. 

And  in  the  mist  of  golden  light, 
You  paint  an  angel  with  a  wreath ; 
Who  took  his  flight  from  home  above, 
To  crown  with  love  the  two  beneath. 

For  God  has  shown  in  many  ways, 
And  may  this  truth  be  undefiled  ; 
The  noblest  thing  upon  the  earth, 
Is  a  mother,  pure,  and  infant  child. 

-Will  Earl  Dodson, 
Covington. 


MEMORIAL  HYMN. 

To  one  and  all  by  Fate's  decree 

There  cometh  days  of  sorrow ; 
'Twas  ever  thus  and  e'er  shall  be 

Until  th'  eternal  morrow. 
Our  friends  in  life,  our  hopes,  our  strife, 

Go  down  before  time's  certain  law  ; 
We  stand  aghast,  before  the  blast, 

And  view  the  scene  in  rev'rent  awe. 

We  bid  our  friends  a  last  adieu, 

As  each  one  fords  the  river, 
Then  fondly  hope  and  pray  anew, 

That  God  will  keep  us  ever 
In  the  paths  of  right,  till  faith  and  sight 

Shall  solve  our  doubts  and  calm  our  fears ; 
When  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth  above 

Shall  reign  thro'  never  ending  years. 

O  bond  of  Love  that  binds  us  fast 

And  links  to  life  eternal ; 
O  Truth  of  God  by  naught  surpassed, 

Reign    in   our   hearts   supernal. 
By  these  we  rise  and  lift  our  eyes 

To   faith's   eternal  summit  grand, 
Where  we  can  see,  eternally. 

The  guiding  of  the  Master's  hand. 

— William   Thomas    Giffe. 
Logansport. 


Off* 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MY  HEART. 


Tis  spring  in  the  old,  old  country, 

And  the  leaves  are  fresh  and  green, 
And  where  once  we  play'd  as  children, 

There  are  cowslips  to  be  seen. 
But  your  little  hands  will  never 

Cull  flowers  on  earth  again, 
And  I'll  hear  your  voice  no  longer, 

Like   the  silver   sound   of  rain. 


You  were  weary  with  the  winter, 

Very  weary,  so  you  said, 
And  we  laid  you  down  to  slumber, 

Where  the  bluebirds  watch  your  bed. 
In  the  country   that's  far  distant, 

O'er  the  tearful,  tossing  sea, 
There  you're  sleeping  still  my  darling, 

Far  awav  from  home  and  me. 


Winds  steal  by  you  very  gently, 

Leave  no  footprints  on  the  grass, 
And  the  birds  will  sing  all  summer, 

And  the  golden  leaves  will  pass. 
But  I  love  to  dream,  my  darling, 

Since  the  day  we  had  to  part, 
That  you're  sleeping  till  G^»d  wakes  you 

In  the  garden  of  my  heart. 

— Theresia  Honecker. 
Oak  Forest. 


MEDITATION. 


Silent,  all  silent  about  my  room, 

And   I    alone   am   thinking, 
While  the  rays  from  the  little  moon 

Through  the  window  shade  is  creeping. 

The  inmates  in  their  beds  are  sleeping, 

But  I'm  in  the  room  above, 
Thinking  of  that   richest  blessing, 

That  T  have  friends  to  love. 

One  dear  friend  I  cannot  see. 

She  would  not  answer  if  I  should  call ! 
In  heaven  she  rests  ready  to  meet  me ; 

My  friend,  my  mother,  my  all. 

Ah  yes,  father,  I  think  of  thee, 
More  than  ever  when  far  apart ; 

You  and  sister  and   I   make  three, 
But  the  fourth  is  my  sweetheart. 

— Martin   Louis   Boughncr. 
Foster. 


LIFE'S  TOMORROW. 

Toil  and  rest,  defeat  and  triumph,  moments  bringing 
joy  or  pain, 

Walking  now  through  gloomy  lowlands,  then  along  a 
brighter  way, 

Senses  thrilled  by  hope's  glad  anthem  or  by  sorrow's 
sad  refrain, 

Fraught  writh  deep,  half-hidden  meaning,  thus  is  pas 
sing  life's  today. 

Earthly  scenes  grow  dim  and  distant  in  the  evening's 

fading  light. 
Pallid  brow  and  pulseless  bosom  touched  by  Azrael's 

icy  hand, 
While    the    twilight    shadows    deepen    to    the    denser 

shades  of  night, 
Then  the  flight  of  a  freed  spirit  to  the  far-off  deathless 

land. 

Glorious  dawn  of  life's  tomorrow — morning  of  eternal 

day! 
Radiance  no  cloud  shall  darken  while  the  endless  ages 

roll, 
Visions   of   supernal    splendor   that   no   language    can 

portray, 
Swelling  strains  of  angel  music  welcoming  a  ransomed 

soul. 

Safe  within  the  pearly  portals,  past  for  age  the  storms 

of  time, 
Nevermore  earth's  tearful  partings,  nevermore  griefs 

cross  to  bear ; 
Cherished  dreams    of    blissful  meetings    realized    on 

heights  sublime, 
Evermore  God's  holy  presence,  evermore  joy's  crown 

to  wear. 

Weary  one,  worn  with  the  conflicts  and  the  cares  of 

life's  today, 
Look  with  faith's  entrancing  vision  to  the  city  of  the 

blest ; 
Soon    the   glad    tomorrow's    glory    will    gleam    bright 

upon  your  way 
And  in   that  fair  light  your  soul   will   enter   heaven, 

home  and  rest. 

—  Tennie  Wilson. 
South  Whitlev. 


NATURE'S  AWAKENING. 


The  trees  will  soon, 

Be  in  full  bloom, 
And  nature  be  at  her  best; 

The  April  showers, 

Will  bring  the  flowers, 
And  wake  them  from  their  rest. 


Oh,  can  we  find, 

Any  one  so  blind, 
This   beauty   they   cannot   see; 

For  as  I  pass, 

Each  blade  of  grass, 
It  speaks  of  God  to  me. 


I  wonder  why, 

Some  fain  would  die, 
And  leave  this  all  behind: 

Our  spirits  may 

Come  back  some  say, 
And  death  they  do  not  mind. 

Can  this  be  so, 

Or   do   any  know, 
Time  alone  will  make  the  test ; 

When  from  the  gloom, 

Of  the  silent  tomb, 
We  too,   shall  wake  from   rest. 

— Elnora    Emery   Frain 
Rochester. 


MOTHER  STILL  PRAYS  FOR  YOU. 

"Mother  still  waits  for  you,  Jack,"  I  heard  the  sweet 

refrain, 

Wafted  on  and  onward  in  the  clear  wintry  night, 
And  it  brought  back  a  scene  of  the  days  gone  by, 

A  picture  of  my  sunny,  southern  home, 
An  old  mother,  aged,  grey  and  bent,  in  the  twilight, 
Sits  and  waits  for  her  wandering,  wayward  boy. 
Why  does  he  tarry,  why  does  he  roam? 

Does  mother  still  wait  for  me  to-night; 

Does  my  mother  still  sit  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
Waiting  for  her  wandering  child  to  come  home ; 

Does  she  wonder  why  I  tarry,  why  I  roam? 

"Mother  still  looks  for  you,  Jack,"  again  it  came, 
Sweet  and  clear  in  the   softly   falling  shadows. 

How  long  has  she  stood  there  and  watched, 

Watched  for  that  truant  son,  out  in  the  wintry  rain, 

Watched  till  her  aching  eyes  are  bleared  and  dim. 
Still  that  mother  waits  and  looks  for  him. 

Does  my  mother  still  wait  and  look  for  me  to-night7 
Are  my  mother's  poor  eyes  bleared  and  dim, 

Does  my  mother  still  wait  and  sit  in  the  twilight 
As  that  poor  mother  did  for  him  ? 

"Mother  still  prays  for  you,  Jack,"  the  song 
In  that  sweet  dream-like  cadence  rose, 

Each  night  before  she  seeks  repose, 
She  bows  that  head  so  old  and  grey. 

Your  mother  still  prays  for  you,  Jack, — oh,  so  long. 
Your  mother  still  prays  for  you  to-day. 

Does  my  mother  still  pray  for  me  (to-day)  to-night ? 

Is  my  mother's  head  so  old  and  grey? 
Yes,  poor  mother  still  prays  for  me  to-day, 

Mother  still  prays  and  waits  to-night. 

— Arleigh   Mathews. 
Monticello. 


AMARANTHUS. 

How  the  years  roll  on ! 

Down  the  steep  slope  of  time  they  pass  away 
From  mortal  sight  to  lands  what  tongue  can  say, 

To  what  bright  dawn? 
Yet  ever  onward,  skyward — sweeping  they 

Roll  on  and  on. 

Wnat  light  hath  streamed  along 
The  eternal  wake  which  they  have  trailed  behind? 
What  flowers,  what  amaranths  have  they  resigned 

To  grow  our  weeds  among? 
O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  we  shall  find 

The  music  for  our  song. 

How  the  years  roll  on ! 

The  bud  blooms  into  leaf  and  the  leaf  falls 
With  other  leaves  to  lie,  while  a  voice  calls 

To  Amaranthus— gone. 

No  answer  echoes  mid  the  lone  gray  walls 
Where  the  tree  grew  and  the  leaves  lie, 
But  Amaranthus  did  not  die— 
And  the  years  roll  on. 

—Clyde  Byron  Beck. 

Richmond. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

Tis  the  cool  of  a  summer  evening,  and  I'm  sitting  all  alone; 
With  the  birds  still  gay  about  me,  and  the  moments  all  my  own. 
I  think  of  the  hours  departed,  of  the  duties  laid  aside, 
And  I  wonder  if  the  Master  my  poor  works  can  abide. 

All  through  the  hours  so  busy,  I've  toiled  with  brain  and  hand, 
And  now  a  host  accusingj  in  calm  review  they  stand. 
And  the  question  comes  unbidden,  what  was  the  motive  power, 
And  is  my  work  acceptable  to  Him  who  rules  the  hour? 

He  tells  us  we  must  honor  Him  in  all  things  that  we  do, 
To  keep  His  name  untarnished,  His  glory  first  in  view. 
And  so,  careworn  and  weary,  I  sit  with  doubtful  mind, 
No  bright  and  clear  solution  to  the  question  can  I  find. 

A  faint,  sweet  sound  of  music,  from  the  church  across  the  way, 
With  a>  soft  and  soothing  influence,  doth  all  my  senses  sway; 
The  dear,  dear  name  of  Jesus,  is  borne  on  the  evening  air; 
And  o'er  my  dreaming  senses,  comes  a  vision  sweet  and  fair. 

Alone,  all  alone,  I'm  standing,  on  the  shore  of  Galilee; 

A  faint,  sweet  scent  of  Eastern  flowers,  is  wafted  o'er  the  lea. 

I  hear  the  hum  of  voices,  the  tread  of  many  feet; 

I  look,  and  lo,  a  company,  my  wondering  glances  meet. 

But  one  of  all  that  company,  arrests  my  eager  eyes; 
His  calm  and  lordly  bearing  claim  kinship  with  the  skies. 
In  sweet  and  thrilling  accents  He  teaches  as  He  walks; 
And  eager  crowd  the  company,  to  hear   Him  as  He  talks. 

From  His  lips  the  words  are  falling  that  are  balm  to  my  troubled 

heart ; 

"Come  all  that  are  heavy  laden,  in  my  life  ye  have  a  part. 
Although  ye  are  weak  and  sinful  and  halting  by  the  way, 
I  give  my  life  to  save  you,  I  am  your  help  and  stay, 

And  in  my  strength  your  weakness  shall  become  as  a  mighty  tree; 
And  in  my  death  your  life  complete  becometh  full  and  free. 
As  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  God  doth  pity  His  own; 
Though  faulty,  weak  and  sinful,  they  shall  not  walk  alone." 

And  now  the  vision  fadeth,  the  gloaming  is  all  around; 
But  in  that  sight  so  heavenly,  a  calm  has  my  spirit  found. 
Strength  for  tomorrow's  duties,  faith  for  the  days  to  come; 
Till  over  the  sea  of  Jasper,  I  reach  the  heavenly  home. 

—Harriet  Newell  Filer. 
Liberty. 


WHO  WOULD  BE  A  DREAMY  f  OET. 

Who  would  be  a  dreamy  poet 

With  his  airy  visions  red ; 
Who  would  join  the  singing  seraphs 

That  are  soaring  over  head? 

Who  would  drink  the  mellow  sweetness 

That  is  coming  from  on  high ; 
Who  would  se^k  the  precious  sunshine 

Which  adorns  a  poet's  eye? 

Sacred  are  these  Holy  visions 

That  are  only  faintly  seen — 
Gleaming  like  a  precious  opal 

Where  a  mystic  light  is  seen. 

In  his  lonely  chamber  musing, 
Some  kind  minstrel  sings  for  you ; 

Like  the  songs  of  ancient  poets 
Come  sweet  anthems  fresh  and  new. 

From  the  gleaming  stars  of  Heaven 

And  the  crescent  silver  moon, 
Come  the  joys  of  bards  in  silence 

As  their  splendor  lights  the  gloom. 

Gems  of  thought  are  soaring  upward 
Where  the  clouds  are  rift  for  thee, 

They   behold  the   throne  of   Glory 
Where  the  Lamb  will  make  you  free. 

These  are  scenes  of  golden  twilight; 

That  must  close  the  dying  day; 
All  would  be  Angelic  Poets 

With  a  life  as  pure  as  they. 

— James  Buchanan  Elmore. 
Alamo. 


19 


THE  BIRTH  OF  CHRIST. 

Full  nineteen  hundred  years  ago, 

The  Angels  came  to  sing, 
They  came  to  sing  a  song  below, 
Of  Christ  the  Babe  ana  King. 

And  as  they  settled  down  to  earth, 

So  quiet  and  so  still, 
They  came  to  men  of  humble  birth, 

With  flocks  upon  the  hill. 

In  concert  sang  the  heavenly  host, 

Their  tones  so  deep  and  clear, 
That  song  which  interests  us  mcst, 
That  song  of  hope  and  cheer. 

I  hear  them,  hark !  they  are  singing,  Ah  ! 

Accenting  every  word, 
In  Bethlehem  is  born  this  day, 

A  Savior,  Christ  the  Lord. 

Was  born  an  infant  like  the  rest, 

So  far  as  men  could  see, 
But  there  was  hidden   in  His  breast, 
The  power  to  calm  the  sea. 

Yes,  power  to  make  the  winds  obey, 
To  make  the  sun  stand  still, 

With  power  in  Heaven  to  prevail, 
With  God  who  rpigns  at  will. 

With  power  to  conquer  death  and  hell, 

With  power  to  set  me  free, 
With  power  to  say  that  all  is  well, 

Between  my  Lord  and  me. 

—William  O'Neall  Mendenhall. 
Richmond. 


LIFE'S  MELODY. 

As  the  sun  in  splendor  sinks  to  sleep  at  twilight's  lonely  hour, 
-'Mid  oft-repeated  lullabys  of  mother  s  queenly  power. 
The  crickets  join  the  merry  lay,  as  they  dance  about  the  room, 
While  the  cheerful  joyous  melody  dispels  the  somber  gloom, 
And  we  gaily  watch  the  burning  of  the  light  so  full  of  mirth, 
As  we  hear  the  cracking  music  of  the  cinders  on  the  hearth. 
When  the  gorgeous  veil  has  parted  that  divides  the  night  from  day, 
And  the  sunbeams  kiss  the  dew  drops  as  they  sparkle  by  the  way- 
Then  the  birds  begin  the  chirping  of  their  happy  morning  song, 
And  the  nightingales  from  eventide  the  melodies  prolong, 
There  is  music  in  so  much  of  life  that  nature  has  to  spare. 
If  we  would  but  catch  the  beauties  as  they're  wafted  through  the  air. 
The  king  of  day  has  enter'd,  closing  the  misty  haze  of  night, 
And  the  jewel'd  skies  have  fled  before  the  cheerful  morning  light, 
We  hear  the  songs  of  nature  while  their  echoing  melody, 
Drives  away  the  darkened  clouds  by  their  enchanting  rhapsody 
In  life  some  skies  are  clouded  by  discouragements  repining, 
In  nature,  back  of  darkest  clouds,  the  sun  is  ever  shining. 
There  is  music  in  the  forest  as  the  wind  goes  whistling  through, 
There  is  music  in  the  fellowship  of  friends,  who've  tried  and  true, 
It's  not  alone  the  wealthy,  who  the  strains  of  joy  may  hear, 
For  diamonds  in  the  rough,  we're  told,  may  be  better  than  the  clear, 
And  the  sweetest  scented  roses,  though  they*  neither  spin  nor  toil, 
Yet  are  always  found  best  nourished  in  the  darkest  of  the  soil. 
There's  happiness  in  our  living  if  we  cherish  but  the  good, 
While  the  shadows  are  made  darker  by  the  melancholy  mood, 
All  the  world  is  more  resplendent  for  the  happy  cheerful  face, 
And  the  trials  we  encounter  are  made  lighter  by  its  grace, 
Then  give  to  the  world  your  sunshine  and  brighten  as  you  build, 
While  the  golden  cup  of  life  with  melodious  joy  is  filled. 

—Tiffin  James  Shackelford. 
Warsaw. 


IT'S  DECORATION  DAY   I  LOVE. 

It's  Decoration  Day  I  love,  for  then  I  get  to  see 

The    brave    old    soldiers    marching,    like    they    did    in    sixty-three 

And  it  almost  makes  me  feel  like  I'd  been  a  soldier  too, 

And  marched  for  country's  sake,  neath  the  Old  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

One  can  have  a  faint  idea  how  the  soldiers  used  to  do, 
When  they  see  real  soldier  vet'rans  dressed  in  their  navy  blue, 
With  their  musketry  of  wartime,  that  poured  forth  flames  of  rea 
While  the  Old  Red,  White  and  Blue  floated  in  the  air  o'erhead. 

When  the  brave  old  soldiers  drop  a  flower  and  a  tear 
On  the  grave  of  their  loved  comrade,  while  the  old  flag  waves  in  air, 
Their  thoughts  are  then  of  Him,  who  preserves  and  spares  each  life 
And  they  stand  uncovered  listening  to  the  drum  and  warbling  fife. 

Ah!   many  are  they  who  have  fallen  on  a  bloody,  shot-mown  field 
Who  fought  to  a  breast  of  bullets,  but  had,  at  last,  to  yield. 
Honor  should  praise  such  warriors,  for  with  musket  and  with  sword 
They  fought  for  flag  and  country,  and  we  trust  they're  with  their 
Lord. 

O!  many  is  the  unmarked  grave,  not  even  by  a  flower, 

Although  the  soldier,  with  true  heart,   fought  bravely  in  his  last 

hour; 
Were  they   not  just  as   truly   great,    who   were  buried   plain    and 

simple, 
As  those  who,  clad  in  robes,  were  buried  in  a  temple? 

Yea,   soldiers   who  now   lay   'neath  where   the   country's  flag  doth 

wavez 

'Tis  the  same  for  which  you  fought,  for  which  you  died  to  save, 
The  honor  shall  be  yours  and  you  shall  march  again 
And  greet  again  your  captain  and  be  a  man  of  men. 

Sleep  on,  oh  silent  sleepers,  who  have  heard  the  cannon's  roar, 
Who  fought  and  gave  your  lives,  but  who  shall  fight  no  more, 
Sleep  on  in  sweet  repose,  till  the  Judgment  Day  shall  come, 
When  again  you'll  march  in  column  and  hear  the  fife  and  drum. 

It's  Decoration  Day  I  love,  for  then  I  get  to  see 

The  brave  old  soldiers  marching  like  they  did  in  sixty-three, 

And  I  sometimes  almost  wish.  I'd  been  a  soldier  too, 

So  I  could  say  "I've  fought  for  the  Old  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

Vallie  Gilbert  Hedge. 
Max. 


OCTOBER  IN  THE  OHIO  RIVER  VALLEY. 

October  came  over  mountains  where  Summer  lately  trod; 

She  left  the  spruce  pines  sighing,  and  the  titled  laurel  proud, 

Her   queently,   gracious   bearing  was  pity   glorified, 

When  she  walked  the  hills  and  valleys  where  Summer  lived  and 

died. 
Her  locks  were  brown  as  the  cornsilk  that  hangs  from  the  ripened 

ears; 

Her  eyes  held  shadowed  mysteries  with  pathos  of  unshed  tears. 
Now  sad,  now  mirthful  her  tender  smile  among  fast  falling  leaves; 
With  her  breath  she  blew  the  thistle-down,  and  meshes  the  spider 

waves ; 

Pausing  to  deck  in  her  favorite  hues,  with  graceful  fingers  deft, 
The  desolate,  sorrowing  offspring  of  Summer's  love  bereft. 
From  her  throat  unwound  the  necklace,  and  jewels  from  her  arms, 
To  hang  on  bush  and  vine  forlorn,  the  gold  and  coral  charms. 
O'er  the  nest  that  rocked  on  a  swinging  branch,  so  empty,  lone  and 

bare, 

She  spread  a  quilt  of  the  rarest  dyes  and  tied  it  fast  with  her  hair. 
She  gathered  a  sheaf  of  goldenrod  and  asters  from  heath  and  wold, 
On  brow  and  hair  hung  purple  stars  and  the  nodding  plumes  of 

gold. 

The  weed  that  bears  on  stately  wands  right  royal  purple  shields 
Saluted  as  she  passed  along  the  highways  and  the  fields. 
Shy  brooks  and  wandering  streamlets  were  dimpled  by  her  feet; 
They  laughed  a  low,  sweet  laughter,  when  eddying  waters  fleet, 
Unpinned  the  stems,  and  loosed  the  leaves,  and  the  current  floated 

down 
Scarlet  and  russet,  green  and    gold,    from    her    broidered    trailing 

gown; 

Like  many  a  life-bark  sailing,  heedless  of  chart  or  of  guide, 
They  stranded  on  a  rocky  beach  or  were  lost  on  trackless  tide. 
The  soul  of  song  was  in  her  voice — a  tender  tremulo: 
Pausing  to  hear,  the  south-bound  birds   on  fluttering  wings   hung 

low; 

The  songster-wren  with  swelling  throat,  and  eyes  to  heaven  turned, 
The  passion  of  all  seasons  from  October's  voice  has  learned. 
Down  twilight   slope   she   saw  her  form,   less,   and   still    less,   had 

grown ; 

And  over  her  frail  shoulder  cast  a  look  so  wierdly  wan, 
The  flowers  paled  upon  her  brow  and  shook  with  sudden  chill, 
For  glitter  of  the  frost  she  saw  upon  a  dark-browed  hill. 
Over  the  dim  horizon's  brim,  from  sky  all  shred  and  fray, 
The  figure  of  November  loomed  hooded  and  cloaked  in  greyl; 
Then  from  her  breast  the  last  flower  dropt— the  blossom  she  had 

kissed; 

In  her  hair  she  vailed  her  streaming  eyes  and  fled  away  in  mist. 

— Mathilde  Christine  Hutchings. 
Madison. 


THE  LOVELY  BEND  OF  TIP. 

There  is  one  place  and  maybe  more, 

On  this  green  earth  or  mundane  sphere, 
Where  memory's  dwelt  so  oft  before, 

On  lovely  scenes  which  we  revere. 
From  youth  to  manhood  as  we  grow, 

Our  life  is  full  of  scenes  so  bright; 
And  thoughts  and  deeds  we're  proud  to  know 

Our  conscience  sees  and  says  are  right. 
We  see  in  all  the  earth's  bright  scenes, 

In  all  the  worthy  lives  of  men, 
The  hand  of  God,  a  vivid  means, 

To  teach  us  rev'rence  now  and  then. 
But  turn  we  now  to  life's  bright  spots, 

The  place  of  all   to  us  most  dear, 
We  trace  the  lines  on  map  to  dots, 

On  banks  Ind'ana's  river  clear. 
The,  Tippecanoe,  we  mean   and  say, 

In  winding  course  through  wood  and  vale, 
Dashes  o'er  rocks  and  leaps  in  spray, 

Runs  fast  through  wood^  and  Indian  trail. 
In  all  our  rivers  there's  a  trend — 

A  winding  course  the  waters  flow. 
In  this  a  graceful  "horse  shoe"  bend, 

And  on  its  banks  green  cedars  grow. 
See  on  one  side  banks  high  and  steep, 

The  other,  low  and  studded  with  trees. 
We  pass  "big  rocks"  and  waters  deep, 

And  Nature's  lovely  prospects  please- 
For  luck  and  pleasure,  'tis  the  place 

To  dwell  in  tent  in  summer  time, 
And  watch  the  fish  join  in  the  chase, 

For  bug  or  worm  in  joy  sublime. 
The  meet  in  picnic  on  the  banks, 

With  class,  with  friends  or  Sunday  school, 
And  watch  the  children  play  their  pranks, 

But  keep  in  mind  the  golden  rule. 
To  glide  adown  in  boat  so  new — 

Clear  round  the  bend,  with  borders  green, 
Of  our  classic  Tippecanoe, 

In  ecstatic  joy  o'er  the  scene. 

— Chester   Clark  French. 
Brookston. 


LIFE'S  SACRED  CHAIN. 


The  Journey  of  Life  is  a  trio, 

Of  three  sacred  parts,  known  to  be, 

And  we  are  the  trunk  and  the  branches 
Of  Eternity's  beautiful  tree. 

Love,  Faith  and  Hope,  we  all  see  them 

As  the  links  of  the  human  heart's  chain ; 
We  cherish  and  kindly  adore  them, 
And  feel  that  each  one  means  the  same. 

Should  we  strike  out  the  discords  in  either, 

Its  musical  rhythm  would  spoil, 
But  we  carefully  bind  them  together 

And  herald  their  tidings  to  all. 

Love  is  a  scene  not  uncommon, 

But  forever  and  aye  is  divine ; 
An  admirable  emblem  to  harbor 

And  worship  at  Liberty's  shrine. 

Faith  is  the  gift  oT  God's  goodness, 

And  mercy  we  cheerfully  seek 
Without  which  our  life  is  but  sadness. 

Forget  not  the  lowly  and   meek. 

But  the  tie  that  unites  all  these  treasures 
That  is  viewed  through  the  weird  telescope, 

Is  the  one,  although  scattered,  yet  the  sweetest, 
The  beauteous  ideals  of  hope. 

Then  with  flowers  let  these  be  adorned, 
Of  richness  and  pureness  so  rare; 

In  that  blessed  of  homes  over  yonder 
In  God's  record  our  names  will  be  there. 

— Nellie  Olive  Brown. 
Brookston. 


SPRING. 

Unloose  thy  mantle,  Gentle  Spring, 
Strew  thy  flowers  o'er  mead  and  vale 
Let  the  wild  wood  with  music  ring, 
Rout  stern  Winter  with  balm-like  gale. 

Closed,  the  doors  have  been  too  long; 
Let  us  scent  thy  sweet  perfume, 
Give  us  gladness,  mirth  and  song ; 
Seal  drear  Winter's  icy  gloom. 

Let  the  peach-bloom  thy  blushes  be  ; 
Gently  touch  the  orchards  with  thy  wand, 
That  when  thy  youth  away  doth  flee 
A  golden  harvest  will  fill  the  land. 

Spread  thy  wings  of  peace  o'er  all, 
Gently  soothe  the  hearts  of  strife, 
Stay  the  war-cry,  with  peace  enthrall ; 
Calm  the  tempestuous  tide  of  life. 

Open  nature's  book  of  flowers; 
(Hands  of  Time,  will  the  pages  turn,) 
As  swiftly  glide  the  sunny  hours 
We  will  each  a  lesson  learn. 

List !  I  hear  your  gentle  whispers 

From  a  blue-bird's  yellow  throat. 

Sing  on  sweet  bird,  sing  Winter's  vespers; 

Welcome  Spring  with  silvery  note. 

Balmy  Soring,  before  thy  shrine, 
I  bow     low,    and    adore    thy    grace. 
Wrords  add  not  to  beauty,  such  as  thine, 
Nor  sleep,  thy  loveliness  efface. 

We  crown  your  brow  with  lovely  flowers 
And  now,  make  you  queen  of  Earth. 
May  sun-shine,  with  gentle  showers, 
Spread  broad-cast,  thy  joy  and  mirth. 

—Miranda  French  Rizor. 


Peru, 


NATURE  EVER  BUSY. 

In  fertile  valley  and  on  the  hill, 
In  ocean  deep,  in  shallow  rill, 
In  forest  dense  and  on  the  plain, 
Around  the  hovel,  in  wealth's  domain, 
Where'er  we  go,  \vhere'er  we  stay, 
Nature  is  working  by  night  and  by   day. 

'Neath  clouded  dome  and  sunny  skies, 
Mid  sweetest  calm  and  the  wind's  deep  sighs, 
In  winter's  chill  and  summer's  heat, 
Whether  the  morn  or  even  we  greet, 
Where'er  we  go,  where'er  we  stay, 
Nature  is  working  by  night  and  by  day. 

In  the  time  when  hearts  most  thrill  with  joy, 
When  naught  doth  trouble  and  naught  annoy, 
Or  when  the  heart  heaves  sighs  of  pain 
And  we  hear  but  sorrow's  old  refrain, 
Whate'er  may  fill  the  heart  of  man, 
Nature's  at  work  on  God's  perfect  plan. 

It  may  be  a  people  has  poured  out  its  praise 
Above  millions  of  names,  one  name  it  doth  raise, 
And  some  heart  is  throbbing  with  high  exalta 
tion, 

One  stops  to  recline  under  the  praise  of  a  nation, 
Whate'er    man's  mind,  whate'er  his  will, 
Nature  is  busy  working  still. 

Though  tumults  arise  and  wars  lay  their  waste, 
Though  lines  of  remembrance  may  be  erased, 
Though  nations  rise,  decline  and  fall, 
And  troubles  come  as  a  crushing  mall, 
Ne'er  sleeping  nor  waking  but  ceaselessly  still, 
Nature  works  in  touch  with  the  heavenly  will. 

— Nellie   Almira   SmitTi. 
Elkhart. 


LITTLE  SWEETHEART  BROWN  EYES. 

Dear  little  brown  eyes, 
Is  studying  hard  tonight, 
Sitting  by  the  table, 
Learning  how  to  write. 
Every  day  he  reads  his  lesson 
And   studies   it  as  well. 
He  knows  the  multiplication  table 
And  has  learned  how  to  spell. 

Dear  little  brown  head 
Over  paper  bending  low, 
Stowing  up  for  the  future, 
Everything  he  wants  to  know. 
Little  sister  is  the  teacher, 
And  at  work  she  keeps  him  late 
Writing  copies   and  adding 
Sums  upon  his  little  slate. 

Little  brown   fingers, 
They  are  busy  all  the  day 
Doing  many  errands, 
Helping  in  so  many  ways, 
Doing  little  deeds  of  kindness, 
That  helps   us   on   our  way, 
Giving  loving   little   messages, 
That  he  knows  just  how  to  say. 

Little  sweetheart  brown  eyes, 
Long  days  are  before  you  yet, 
Gray  may  grow  your  auburn  locks, 
And  dim  your  eyes  of  jet. 
Days  of  happiness  and  prosperity, 
May  await  you  ere  long, 
But  now  your  life  is  pleasure 
Like  a  sweet  happy  song. 

— Alberta  Mahan  Stanley. 
Centreville. 


CORN  SHUCKIN'  TIME. 

Dear  old  summer's  a  biddin'  adieu ; 
An'  nature's  a  puttin'  on  a  golden  hue ; 

An'  by  the  rooster's  crowin',  the  hen's  cackle  ; 

The  bleatin'  o'  the  sheep,  the  lowin'  o'  the  cattle ; 
The  barkin'  o'  the  dog,  the  gruntin'  o'  the  swine  ; 
You  can  tell  that  its  corn  shuckin'  time. 

Hunt  the  file  an'  whetstone,  sharpen  up  the  pins; 
Get  the  saw  an'  hammer,  straighten  out  the  bins ; 

Buy  a  box  o'  axle  grease,  dob  it  on  the  trucks ; 

Patch  out  the  "end  gates,"  put  the  "side-boards"  up. 
Call  in  the  mules  an'  drive  'em  "down  the  line," 
Don't  you  hear  'em  brayin'?    "Its  corn  shuckin'  time." 

Get  out  an'  hustle,  boys,  never  mind  the  frost ; 
Keep  up  the  "down  row,"  let  not  an  ear  be  lost ; 

Sail  'em  in  the  wagon,  pile  'em  way  up  high  ; 

You'll  drive  in  with  your  "forty"  bye  an'  bye ; 
Hollow  "hoo-a-hoo-a-hoo" !  yell  it  out  sublime, 
Let  the  country  know  that  its  corn  shuckin'  time. 

Now  I'm  in  my  glory,  feelin'  best  of  all ; 

Never  feel  that  way,  'ceptin'  of  a  fall ; 

When  the  table's  laden  with  fruits  the  summer  bore, 
An'  a  feller  feels  like  eatin'  more  an'  more  an'  more. 

You  fellers  in  the  city,  your  lot's  nothin'  side  o'  mine, 

Down  here  in  the  country  when  its  corn  shuckin'  time. 

— William  John  Burtscher. 
Evansville. 


THE   FATAL   MILK  CAN. 

It  occurred  upon  a  Christmas  day,  when  I  witnessed  my  "first 
performance  on  any  stage." 

The*  play  was  "The  Octoroon."  It  was  a  good,  old-time  comedy- 
farce,  well-sprinkled  with  pathos  spots.  I  saw  it  in  Valentine 
Butsch's  theater,  "the  Old  Met,"  away  back  in  the  last  century,  so 
long  ago  that  it  frightens  me  to  recall  the  date. 

It  was  in  the  last  days  of  the  best  stock  company  ever  brought 
together  in  this  country,  and  "Old  White,"  the  funniest  man  who 
ever  lived,  was  in  the  cast.  His  talent  for  comedy  amounted  to 
genius  of  high  order,  but  he  died  broken-hearted  because  he  had 
never  had  an  opportunity  to  show  the  world  that  he  was  a  great 
tragedian. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  away  back  in  the  last  century,  my 
father  lived  at  the  edge  of  Indianapolis,  and  I  drove  to  school  every 
morning  with  him  as  he  went  to  his  office.  My  eldest  brother  and 
his  new  wife  lived  in  the  city  and  were  joint  proprietors  of  a  new 
baby,  over  which  my  mother  also  exercised  proprietary  rights.  She, 
for  example,  decreed  that  dairy  milk  was  not  good  for  the  child, 
who,  in  one  respect,  at  least,  resembled  the  immortal  "Pip."  So 
1  was  delegated  to  carry  milk  to  that  infant  every  morning  when 
I  drove  to  school. 

Upon  "The  Octoroon"  Christmas  day  my  youngest  brother,  who 
was  seven  and  very  fat,  went  to  the  city  with  me— I  was  nine— and 
the  milk  can,  who  was  about  a  gallon  and  a  half,  and  we  three 
attended  the  matinee.  I,  being  full  of  false  pride,  wanted  to  leave 
the  can  in  a  store  under  the  theater,  but  my  brother,  whom  we  called 
"Brigadier,"  was  of  a  strenuous  turn  of  mind,  looked  upon  the  can 
as  a  thing  of  great  value,  if  not  of  beauty,  and  insisted  upon  taking 
it  with  us  to  the  play. 

"Me'll  tarry  it,"   he   said,    "and   me'll    hold   it,    too." 

How  "me"  held  it  when  "The  Octoroon"  warmed  tip  you  will  soon 
learn. 

The  Brigadier  sat  in  the  chair  next  to  the  aiple  and  carefully 
held  the  can  in  his  chubby  little  arms  as  if  it  were  a  baby. 

The  play  progressed  beautifully,  thrillingly,  and  the  Brigadier 
clung  to  the  milk  can  with  a  grip  worthy  of  a  mother's  love. 
His  eyes  were  almost  out  of  his  head  with  excitement.  The 
fun  of  the  play  was  furious,  the  interest  was  intense, 
the  pathos  was  sweet  and  tear-inspiring.  Alas!  there  was 
one  touch  of  pathos  too  many.  Some  one  was  dying  on  the  stage, 
perhaps  it  was  the  beautiful  "Octoroon." 

The  interest  was  at  its  highest,  the  tear-charged  hush  was  at 
its  deepest,  when  suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  terrific 
bang!  bang!  bang!  The  fatal  can,  overcome  no  doubt  by  the  pathos 
of  the  play,  had  fallen  from  the  Brigadier's  lap  and  started  down  the 
steps,  bumpity  bump!  bang!  bang!  bang;  toward  the  stage  with 
*he  evident  intent  to  save  the  beautiful  "Octoroon"  if  possible.  With 
each  succeeding  step  in  the  isle  the  noise  that  milk  can  made  grew 
louder  and  deeper  till  to  me  its  frightful  din  seemed  superfluous 
for  any  occasion  short  of  the  general  resu?~rection.  On  it  went,  bang! 
bang!  bang!  till  by  one  triumphal  bound  it  sprang  from  the  last 
step  and  landed  squarely  upon  the  sacred  person  of  the  bass  fiddler. 

The  Brigadier  looked  at  me  in  wild  consternation  and  then,  regard 
less  of  the  "Octoroon"  and  her  sorrows,  started  down  the  aisle  in 
pursuit  of  the  precious  milk  can.  The  Brigadier's  legs  were  so  short 
and  fat  that  he  stumbled  and,  following  the  can's  example,  roller! 
down  the  steps  and  rested  placidly  by  its  side,  close  to  that  mar 
velous  instrument,  the  bass  viol. 

Well,  the  audience  simply  rose  up  as  one  man  and  howled.  "Old 
White"  howled,  the  villain  howled;  even  the  dying  woman  howled, 
and  the  curtain  came  down  in  the  middle  of  the  act  upon  the 
wildest  applause  ever  witnessed  in  the  "Old  Met." 

A  big  Irish  policeman,  who  looked  to  be  about  twenty-two  times 
the  size  of  the  Brigadier,  walked  down  the  aisle,  lifted  the  little 
fellow  from  under  the  bass  fiddle  by  his  ear  and  said: 

"Take  that  d— d  can   out   of  here/' 

His   request    was    complied    with. 

The  Brigadier  came  back  to  his  seat,  the  curtain  rose  and  the 
play  began  again. 

When  the  dying  scene  was  reached  the  audience  began  to  titter 
and  soon  it  was  evident  the  Brigadier's  milk  can  had  knocked  all 
pathos  out  of  the  "Octoroon."  While  the  woman  was  dying  the  laugh 
increased  and  the  scene  would  have  been  a  great  deal  worse  than 
a  failure  had  not  White  said  lugubriously: 

"Alas!  she  has  gone."  Then,  aside  to  the  audience:  "I  wish  some 
body  would  give  that  boy  with  the  can  a  dog." 

— Charles  Major. 
Shelbyville. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I  went  to  my  childhood's  clear  old  home 

In  the  golden  days  of  fall ; 

I  sought  the  paths  where  I  used  to  roam 

And  the  grounds  where  I  played  at  ball ; 

But  the  haunts  were  choked  with  saplings,  tall , 

That  had  sprung  from  the  earthly  loam, 

And  the  pleasure  grounds  I  sought  were   all 

Lost  'neath  the  wooded  dome. 

I  went  to  the  house  where  my  mother  dwelled 

In  her  children's  happy  love ; 

Where  her  voice,  in  supplication,  welled 

To  the  throne  of  her  God  above ; 

No  voice  now  to  soothe,  like  a  gentle  dove, 

The  pain  that  my  bosom  swelled — 

No  kiss  fondly  given  in   rapture  to  prove 

The  wealth  of  affection  she  held. 

The  piano  still  sat  in  the  parlor,  unused, 

While  near  was  a  vacant  chair ; 

And  the  walls  were  adorned  with  beauty,  confused, 

Set  by  hands  that  were  nimble  and  fair; 

But  no  childish   voices   cadenced   the   air 

Of  the   dim   old   hall,    now   abused 

By  the  hand  of  Time,  who  everywhere, 

Leaves  the  mark  of  his  march,  though  refused. 

As  I  stood  enwrapt  in  reverted  thought, 

My  childhood  swept  by  in  a  train  ; 

A  moment  I   lived  in  the  joys  it  brought, 

But  they  vanished  like  dust  in  the  rain  ; 

And  as  I  went  forth  to  the  world  again, 

Its  value  seemed  equal  to  naught — 

While  the  dead  leaves  were  falling,  my  heart  cried  in 

pain, 
"What  is  earth-life,  by  man  to  be  sought?" 

— John  Willard  Sappenfield. 
Evansville. 


THE  OLD  BRICK  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL. 

When  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  gladness, 

And  our  muse   in  fancy  plays. 
When  our  hearts  are  touched  with  sadness, 

As  we  think  of  other  days; 
Then  awakes  fond   recollection, 

And  our  memories  catch  a  thrill, 
As  we  turn  with  sweet  reflection, 

To  the  old  Brick  on  the  hill. 

It   was   there   we   spent   our   morning, 

In  the  sunlight's  silvery  gleam, 
Where  we   heard   no   notes  of  warning 

To  disturb  our  golden  dream  ; 

It  was  then  a  world  of  glory, 

Even  yet  it  sends  a  thrill, 
As  we  wake   the  olden  story 

Of  the  brick  house  on  the  hill. 

When  I  think  of  things  so  weird, 

Of  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
Of  the  favorite  flowrets  reared, 

Which  were  born  to  bloom  and  fade, 
Of  the  morning  songsters  singing, 

And   the   lonesome   whip-poor-will, 
Oh,  I   find  my  heart  still  clinging 

To  that  mansion  on  the  hill. 

But  the   mansion's  now  deserted ; 

"It  has  had   its  day,"  they  say; 
And  the  family  have  departed 

To  a  mansion  far  away. 
And  though  you  say  that  I  am  frantic, 

I  should  have  a  stronger  will ; 
Yet  there's  no  place  so  romantic 

As  the   old  Brick  on  the   hill. 

— Alfred   El  more. 
Covington. 


PAST  AND  FUTURE. 

In  reviewing  the  past  and  the  present, 

The  future  I  think  I  can  see, 
At  best  life  has  been  so  unpleasant, 
My  spirit  now  longs  to  be  free. 

Sometimes  I  have   hopes  full  of  gladness. 

But  soon  do  they  vanish  away, 
For  lo,  the  next  moment  comes  sadness, 

This  lasting  for  many  a   day. 

When  time  with  its  changes   unceasing 
Brings  one  gleam  of  joy  to  my  heart, 

The  sorrow  and  care  all  releasing, 
And  bidding  the  gloom  to  depart. 

Bright  hope  comes  again  all-sustaining, 

If  I  could  but  trust  all  the  way, 
While  spiritual  strength  I'm  regaining 

Clouds  again  darken  my  day. 

Thus  sunshine  and  shadows  are  chasing 
Each  other  through  life  as  we  go, 

But  the  kind  hand  of  time  is  erasing 
A  part  of  the  sorrow  and  woe. 

Although  there  are  wounds  time  can  heal  not; 

And  scars  that  are  deeply  set, 
Our  lives  should  be  such  that  we'll  feel  not 

A  deep  and  lasting  regret. 

When  we  hear  death's  cold  dark  river  surging, 
And  feel  the  cold  waves  sweeping  o'er, 

Then,  from  the  last  trial  emerging 
We'll  dwell  on  a  happier  shore. 

—Ada  Ellen  Rice. 
Spencer. 


ART  IS   DIVINE. 

The  slanting  beams  of  the  setting  sun  were  softened 
into  a  ruddy  glow  as  they  streamed  through  the  win 
dow  panes  of  the  art  gallery. 

The  throng  of  fashionable  people  had  come,  ad- 
imired,  and  remarked  upon  the  beauty  of  the  paintings, 
and  then  had  departed  to  their  luxurious  homes.  But  no 
one  had  noticed  the  shabby,  sad-faced  little  woman 
who  had  passed  slowly  by  the  pictures,  gazing  intently 
at  each  one  as  though  to  find  some  comfort  therein. 
Remaining  long  after  the  others  had  gone,  she  at  last 
gazed  up  to  where  the  sun's  rays  fell  upon  the  eastern 
wall.  She  stood  transfixed  at  what  she  beheld. 
Across  her  memory  rushed  the  panorama  of  her  sad 
past  life —  the  bright  dreams  of  her  girlhood  which 
had  been  dispelled  by  stern  realities  which  had  come 
later.  The  one  to  whom  she  had  given  her  truest 
love — a  part  of  her  very  being — had  proved  unworthy, 
and  she  had  not  possessed  the  power  to  save  him  from 
his  downward  course. 

Then  the  sorrow  that  had  eaten  so  deeply  into  her 
heart,  seemed  also  to  destroy  her  vitality,  so  for  several 
years  she  could  not  join  the  world's  workers.  Next 
the  death  of  those  nearest  and  dearest — and  then  stern 
poverty  in  all  its  horrors  faced  her  unflinchingly  ;  and 
now  unknown  and  uncared  for  she  was  compelled  to 
earn  her  daily  bread  by  sewring  in  an  establishment 
whose  motto  was,  "hard  work,  little  wages." 

She  felt  that  God  had  been  very  cruel  to  her  and  her 
set,  hard  mouth  and  sorrowful  eyes  had  not  invited  the 
confidence  of  her  fellow-workers. 

The  setting  sun  seemed  to  produce  a  halo  around  the 
picture,  for  he  face  was  that  of  the  'Man  of  Sorrows." 
It  seemed  to  the  watcher  as  though  the  cruel  thorns 
were  pressing  her  bleeding  temples. 

"He  is  despised  and  rejected  of  men,  a  man  of  sor 
rows  and  acquainted  v/ith  grief/'  Oh,  HE  understands 
her  grief.  Are  not  His  up-lifted  eyes  praying  for 
those  whom  He  so  loves  in  this  world?  And  her  sor 
rows  are  so  insignificant  when  compared  to  those  of 
the  Man  of  Galilee. 

Her  long-dwarfed  soul  arose  from  its  slumber  and  in 
anguished  prayer  cried  out, — then  that  for  which  so 
many  years  she  had  unhundered,  filled  her  being  with 
light.  For  "Peace,  sweet  peace"  had  illumined  her 
countenance  and  serenely  she  passed  out  again  into 
the  world. 

— Ethel  Harris  Case. 
Marion. 


THE  PHILANTHROPIST. 
The  kings  who  reared  the  pyramids,  the  people  there 

who  wrought, 
Have   left   their   monuments,   alone,   the   builders   are 

forgot ; 
No  good  results  now  live  by  them,  those  massive  piles 

of  stone, 
From  them  mankind  can  reap  no  good,  no  good  by 

them  is  sown ; 

The  only  lesson  they  set  forth,  and  it's  a  cruel  thing, 
Is  of  the  servitude  of  man,  the  power  of  a  king. 
And  thus  it  is  with  most  of  men,   they  satisfy  their 

greed, 
The  present  life  is  all  they  see,  for  all  they  e'er  take 

heed ; 
Though   massive    millions   be   acquired   they   give   no 

serious  thought 
To  great  mankind  beyond  this  life,  they  die  and  are 

forgot. 
They  pass  and  leave  their    massive    wealth    to    legal 

battles  fought, 
And  mankind  reaps  no  lasting  good,  no  lasting  good 

was  sought. 

I  have  in  mind  a  nobler  man,  a  man  of  broader  scope, 
A  man  who  lives  for  future  years,  the  future  is  his 

hope ; 
And  a  thousand  cities  in  our  land,  will  bless  his  name 

and  say, 
That   he,   though   a   millionaire,   has   built   for   future 

day ; 
Has  built  a  thousand  monuments,  that  will  proclaim 

his  fame, 

And  millions  of  posterity  will  learn  to  lisp  his  name. 
Yet  some,  alas,  will  rail  at  him,  this  is  a  great  man's 

fate, 
But  come  it  will,  for  come  it  must,  philanthropy  can 

wait. 
Yes,  wait  for  fame,  for  it  is  his,  to  sober  minds  'tis 

known, 
His   name   will   be   a  household   word,   he'll    reap   as 

he  has  sown  ; 
Then  sing  his  praise,  exalt  his  name,  that  all  the  world 

may  hear, 
For   Carnegie,   philanthropist,    stands   out   without   a 

peer. 
Hartford  City.  — John  Alexander  Slater. 


PARTING  AND  MEETING. 

If  I  must  leave  thce,  sweetheart,  let  it  be 
When  saddened  twilight  sinks  to  dismal  night, 
When  wailing  winds  bemoan  the  sighing  flight 
Of  day's  dead  spirit  in  a  rhapsody 
Pitched  shrill  and  hoarse  in  melancholy  key. 
I  cannot  bear  that  nature's  heart  be  light, 
Or  Earth  rejoice,  or  twinkling  star  shine  bright, 
While  thy  dear  heart  and  mine  weep  wretchedly 
But  when  I  may  return  and  clasp  again 
Thy  loving  heart  to  mine,  let  Earth  be  clad 
In  gala  dress  of  green,  or  yet  of  white, — 
Let  love-life  all  the  world  with  flowers  enchain, 
Or   jeweled   ermine   sparkle  gleaming-glad, 
While  nature  shares  our  rapturous  delight. 

— Albert  Charlton  Andrews. 
Brookville. 


A   VISION. 

Last  night  ere  the  twilight 

Had  long  passed  into  the  great  beyond 

While  sitting  in  my  study  thinking, 

Suddenly  I  felt  myself  sinking,  sinking, 

And  all  was  white. 

And  night  was  there  no  more 

The  door  opened  and  on  the  floor 

I  heard  the  silent  tread  of  spirit  feet — 

Invincible  forms  were  entering 

And  around  me  were  centering — 

The  clock  struck  five, 

And  life  from  me  seemed  to  ebb. 

How  fast  the  time  flew  past! 

I  heard  the  spirits,  one  by  one  depart. 

Half-unconsciously  I  sat  ther?  seeing 

My  spirit  guests  withdraw — time  was  fleeing- 

I  heard  them  close  the  door, 

And   before   me   all   grew   dark. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  light,  and  an  angel  in  white 

Appeared  sitting  in  my  study  chair. 

He  looked  at  me  smiling, 

And  his  right  hand  was  lying 

On  the  page  of  an  open  book — 

I  looked  and  saw  there   my  name. 

The  date  and  my  fate 

Was  there  written  in  golden  letters. 

I  heard  the  angel  explaining 

But  could  not  catch  his  meaning. 

He  finished  and  smiled 

And,  while  I  looked,  vanished. 

— Benjamin  Franklin  Woorlcox. 
Millersburg. 


THE  RIVER  OE  TEARS. 

A  wonderful  stream  is  the  River  of  Tears, 
That  ran  since  the  dawn  of  mortality's  years ; 
Its  mouth  is  indefinite  space  'neath  the  skies ; 
Its  sources  are  tender  humanity's  eyes. 

The  physical  forces  like  weight,  heat  and  cold, 
Are  reasons  why  other  great  rivers  have  rolled  ; 
But  passion  induces  this  river  to  flow, 
Whereon  to  float  feelings  of  pleasure  and  woe. 

The  tears  of  friends  bidding  each  other  good  bye, 
To  meet  nevermoie  till  they  gather  on  High; 
And  other  sad  scenes  among  men  upon  Earth, 
Grant  unto  this  river  renewal  of  birth. 

The  eyes  of  devotion  oft  bathe  in  that  stream 
To  rinse  out  a  probable  mote  or  a  beam, 
Induing  their  vision  with  adequate  sight 
To  see  Love's  real  beauty  in  "Let  there  be  Light." 

'Tis  ebbing  and  flowing  around  the  sick  bed, 
And  washing  the  shores  where  we  bury  the  dead, 
Subsiding  no  sooner  than  mourning  departs, 
The  cloud  of  the  funeral  awing  friend's  hearts. 

It  nourishes   scenery   that  is  sublime. 
Though  here  and  there  gone  in  a  moment  of  time. 
The  waves  roll  along  the  pure  linen  banks  white. 
Then  percolate  through  and  are  hidden  from  sight. 

A  mother  in  bed,  near  the  River  of  Tears, 
Is  covered  with  soil  to  sleep  thousands  of  years, 
Aroused  on  the  morn  of  the  Infinite  Day, 
May  learn  that  such  rivers  have  all  rolled  away. 

When  mountains  of  sorrow  are  pressing  the  heart 
And  feelings  through  language  are  failing  to  start 
And  even  your  vision  is  tarnished  with  grief, 
Go  plunge  in  the  River  of  Tears  for  relief. 

— Aaron  Spencer  Zook. 
Goshen, 


A  PAGE  OF  LIFE. 

As  o'er  I  turn  a  page  of  life, 
Its  lessons  to  renew, 
I  find  this  first, 
That  in  the  strife, 
Be  ever  kind  and  true. 

Be  true  as  sun  is    o  the  day, 
Then  cheer  the  lonely  heart. 
Oh!  lull  to  rest, 
Old  hate  and  wrong, 
And  teach  the  nobler  part. 

Let  not  the  anchor  cast  its  weight 

With  frowns  upon  your  brow. 

Oh  Lord,  help  those 

That  cannot  see 

The  pangs  their  thrusting  now. 

Speak  kind,  let  not  thy  words  be  thor  .11 

To  pierce  the  aching  heart, 

Which  throngs  the  human 

Mind  with  guile 

Oft  times,  will  tear  drops  start. 

Scorn  not  the  fallen  on  their  way, 
Help  them  to  rise  again, 
That  they   may  live 
In  joy  and  peace, 
Unto  eternals  end. 

Direct  our  footsteps  for  the  right 
W7hile  in  this  world  below, 
Praise  unto  Him 
Who  sends  the  light, 
And  guides  us  by  its  glow. 

—Elizabeth  Kruse. 

Ft  Wa*rne. 


THE  LITTLE  LEAVES. 

A  little  leaf  softly  said 

To  the  leaves  by  its  side 

"Soon  we  all  must  die, 

For  the  north  wind  is  blowing  cold 

And  that  is  why  I  cry." 

Its  brothers  and  sisters  all  laughed, 

And  said,  "I  don't  see  why!" 

"Nor  I !  nor  I !" 

The  mother  tree  shook  her  head  and  sighed, 

As  she  looked  upon  her  childrens'  heads, 

And  said,  "Alas,  dear  ones,  it  is  true, 

The  north  wind  will  soon  call  you 

To  your  death  beds." 

"  I  know  the  north  wind's  cruel  songs  ; 

He  leaves  you  with  me 

But  a  brief  summer's  day, 

Then  hastens  along  and  takes  my  children 

away, 

Covers  them  at  my  feet  quite  snug  and  warm, 
And  they  never  again  hear  his  cruel  song." 

—Clara  Puckett. 
Winchester. 


GOD  GIVE  US  PEACE! 

Emblem  of  Liberty, 
Uncle  Sam's  flag  we  see 

Gloriously  high. 
Planted  by  Jasper's  hand — 
Honored  in  every  land ; 
By  thee  our  boys  will  stand, 

Will  win  or  die. 

Millions  of  able  men 
Will  do  the  best  they  can, 

Forget  it  not. 
These  our  beloved  ones, 
Noblest  of  mother's  sons 
Fear  neither  death  nor  Dons ; 

Love  and  fear  God. 

Here  are  still  Washingtons, 
Hobsons  and  Jeffersons; 

Heroes,  not  small, 
Who  will  do  every  bit 
As  Schley  and  Dewey  did, 
Who  will  aim,  shoot  and  hit, 

Who'll  win  or  fall- 

"Author  of  Liberty," 
King  of  humanity ! 

Let  bloodshed   cease ! 
'Mid  groans  and  cannons'  noise, 
Hear  this  most  humble  voice : 
God  bless  our  Flag  and  Boys ; 

God  give  us  peace ! 

— Joseph  Reckers. 
Richmond. 


A  SONG  OF  BROKEN  RANKS. 


The  summer  feast  is  over, 
The  cypress  groves  repine; 

The  bee  has  quit  the  clover 
For  stores  of  golden  wine. 


The  roses  with  the  fragrance, 
Like  phantoms  stole  away : 

And  leaves,  like  dusky  vagrants, 
Forsook  their  palsied  spray. 


The  moonbeams  in  their  splendor 

On  quiet  hills  disclose 
Through   stillness,  lone  and  tender, 

The  turret's  stern  repose. 


I'll  leave  my  shield  and  sabre, 
While  battling  hosts  shall  tread ; 

To  cease  with  thought  and  labor, 
And  fall  among  the  dead ! 

— Harvey  Porter  Layton. 
Dresser. 


GO,  WINTER,   GO! 

Go,  begrimed  old  winter,  go. 
Take  with  thee  the  ice  and  snow. 
Already  you  have  tarried  long 
To  catch  the  sweet  enchanting  song 
Of  the  blushing  verdant  spring, 
And  do  not  go  to  let  her  in. 
But  like  the  bee  that  honey  sips, 
You  steal  the  nectar  from  her  lips. 
Go,  frigid  King,  you  horrid  thing, 
Make  way  for  lovely  Queen  of  Spring. 

Go,  grizzled  monster,  bleak  and  cold  ; 
You  are  getting  most  too  bold 
To  flirt  with  such  a  lovely  Queen, 
Who  would  come  and  spread  her  sheen 
Of  brightest  garlands,  and  would  stay, 
If  you  would  only  go  your  way! 
Then  take  her  not  in  your  cold  arms, 
And  rob  her  of  her  sweetest  charms, 
Or  lure  her  more  within  thy  trap 
To  linger  longer  in  her  lap. 

So  go,  grim  winter,  speed  thy  way, 

Don't  prolong  thy  blighting  stay. 

But  hold  !  you  are  not  to  blame, 

For  we  poor  mortals  are  the  same ! 

We,  too,  linger  for  the  hours 

That  brings  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers — 

Lingering,  longing  for  sweet  spring 

And  all  the  joys  it  ushers  in. 

But  go,  grim  winter,  bless  thy  way ; 

I  do  not  wonder  at  thy  stay. 

— Robert  Irwin  Patterson. 
Muncie. 


WHITEWATER  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

Its  music  was  sweet  in  life's  early  morn, 
While  gaily  it  laughed  each  barrier  to  scorn. 
The  sun  kissed  its  face  and  it  sparkled  in  glee 
And  danced  o'er  the  pebbles  abundant  and  free. 

O  River  !  sweet  River  !  my  childhood's  delight ! 
Thy  music's  the  same  in  the  moonlight  tonight ! 
The  grasses  grow  soft  and  darken  the  shade 
Where  willows  bend  gently  and  shadows  are  laid . 

The  moonbeams  are  filtering  through  the  tops  of 

the  trees, 
They  quiver  and  dance  with  the     leaves     in     the 

breeze. 

O  River!  swreet  River!  my  childhood's  delight! 
Thy  beauty's  the  same  in  the  moonlight  tonight. 

The  voice  of  our  master  in  its  music  is  heard  ; 
Its  beauty  transcendant  our  spirits  have  stirred. 
We  feel  a  sweet  peace — like  Galilee  stilled — 
Life's  tranquil  sea  with  His  presence  is  filled. 

O  River!  sweet  River!  thy  beauty  so  bright 

Is  the  shadow  of  love  in  the  moonlight  tonight ! 

— Mary  Alice  Hoffman. 
Metamora. 


THE   BLOOM  WAS  ON  THE   LILAC. 

I  opened  up  my  window  to  the  balmy  air  of  spring, 
The  bloom  was  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on  the 

wing, 
The  dewy  grass  like  diamonds  was  sparkling  in  the 

sun, 

And  in  a  world  of  ecstacy  a  spring  day  had  begun. 
I  stood  and  gazed  with  tranquil  bliss  upon  a  scene  so 

fair, 
I  heard  the  red  bird's  piping  voice     and     the     robins 

sweetly  sing, 

How  plainly  it  did  speak  to  me  that  God  is  everywhere. 
And  the  bloom  was  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on  the 

wing. 
And  as  I  stood  in  pensive  mood,  and  looked  upon  the 

scene, 

1  thought  of  loved  ones  gone  before  into  that  land  un 
seen, 
How  some  beneath  the  sod  were  laid  to  rest  in  early 

spring, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on 

the  wing. 
Oh !  we  miss  them  ever,  always,  and  the  years  have 

grown  so  long 
Since  they  left  us  here  so  lonely,  since  they  joined  us 

in  our  song. 
But  when  earth  is  smiling  gladly,  Oh  !  we  miss  them 

In  the  spring, 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on 

the  wing. 

Ah !  how  I've  seen  the  years  go  by,  how  soon  the  gold 
en  hours 

Have  passed  into  eternity,  but  still  we  have  the  flowers. 
.And  now  upon  this  lovely  morn,  I  stand  in  early  spring 
The  bloom  is  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on  the  wing. 
I  know  not  when  the  hour's  at  hand  that  I  am  called 

to  go, 

How  many  seasons  I  will  see,  nor  do  I  care  to  know, 
But  only  this,  T  hope  'twill  be  some  time     in     early 

spring, 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  lilac  and  the  swallow  on  the 


Alquina. 


wing. 

— Joseph  Morris  Widdows. 


THE  ROOSTER  SCHOOLMASTER, 

Oft  have  I  wandered  in  days  now  old, 

Along  the  quaint  and  quiet  road, 
To  the  little  school  house  on  the  hill— 

My  soul  with  merriment  to  fill. 

When  to  my  summons  the  master  came, 
His  face  aglow  with  a  perpetual  flame— 

For  with  his  many  troubles  and  rare 
A  patron  was  always  welcome  there. 

Day  in,  day  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
The  master  tells  of  wrong  and   right, 

Expounds  the  principles  of  endurance  and  strife 
And  prepares  his  boys  and  girls  for  future  life. 

Ever  in  highest  hopes  and  aspirations  abiding, 
Through  the  live-long  day  planning  and  con 
triving — 

That  his  pupils  may  accomplish  more 
On  the  morrow  than  the  day  before. 

Grave  is  the  look  the  master  wears, 

With  wrinkled  forehead  from  worrying  cares  ; 

A  life  so  ideal  and  sublime 

Has  passed  along  the  river  of  Time. 

The  master  speaks  with  stern  command, 
And  every  pupil  yields  at  his  demand  ; 

Yet  not  too  irksome  is  his  rule— 
For  he  was  once  a  boy  at  school. 

"Get  an  education  while  you   can," 

Was  the  advise  of  the  courageous  old  man  ;— 

"For  in  after  years  you'll  always  regret 
If  ignorance"  and  privations  should  be  met." 

O,  may  the  lessons  he  has  taught, 
In  highest  aspirations  be  wrought ; 

And  when  he  goes  to  meet  his  Lord, 
May  he  receive  his  just  reward. 

—Chester  Arthur  McCormick. 


Knox, 


TRANSITION. 

Sunlight  retreating ; 
Shadows  reaching  far ; 
One   moment's  waiting, 
And  I  will  cross  the  bar. 

Hopes  in  me  burning; 
Friends  left  to  fear. 
Though,   no  returning, 
Shed  not  a  tear. 

Life  has  its  shadows  ; , 
Death  has  its  sting; 
What  seems  but  sorrow, 
Comfort  will  bring. 

Daylight  is  darkness; 
Death  but  a  sleep; 
Transition  follows ; 
Never — never  weep. 

Sunset  surrounds  me. 
Moving  from  coast, 
I  see  Him  beckon. 
Adrift !  But  not  lost. 

Sunlight  approaching; 
Waned  the  midnight  star ; 
Earth,  care  and  sorrow, 
Seen  from  afar. 

—Thomas  M.  Agnew. 
Logansport. 


THE  SONGS  OF  YESTERDAY. 

"The   songs   of  yesterday!"     What  meaning  to  that 

term 

That  falls  with  .eixler  cadence  on  the  ear! 
Their  memory  is  ever  pregnant  germ 
That  blooms  forth  instant  with  a  joy  or  tear- 

At  cradle's  snowy  depths  those  songs  were  heard ; 
At  knee  of  loving  mother,  and  at  play  ; 
At  courtship's  sunny  hours  their  notes  have  stirred ; 
Those  lilting  melodies  of  yesterday. 

Not  all  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Ind, 

Not  all  the  joys  that  linger  in  Cathay, 

Could  take  from  me  those  words  in  mem'ry  limned — • 

Those  loved,  those  treasured   songs  of  yesterday. 

An  urn  unpillaged  be  the  lot  to  me — 
A  sacred  urn  for  song,  for  joyous  lay 
Sang  on  life's  varied  paths,  on  troubled  yea 
By  those  who  sang  "the  songs  of  yesterday." 

—Charles  Albert  McDonald. 
South  Bend. 


A  SPRING  OUTING. 

Sitting  on  the  bank  of  old  Arnold's  Creek,  a  mean 
dering  stream  flowing  a  mile  back  of  the  "Blue  Jeans" 
town  (Rising  Sun,  Ind.)  I  re-baited  my  fish  hook  and 
thinking  little  of  the  rebate  plan  I  left  behind  me 
down  in  town,  with  a  swish  threw  my  line  far  out 
in  mid-stream  where  a  moment  before  I  had  seen  a 
"yaller  cat"  snap  at  a  water-skipper. 

For  a  few  moments  I  anxiously  waited  for  the  fish 
to  jerk  the  dodler  under,  but  slowly  it  drifted  off  down 
stream,  then  caught  by  an  eddy  lazily  swinging  toward 
shore  and  back  up  stream.  Splash !  went  a  muskrat 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek  and  started  across 
toward  me. 

Meeting  a  large  turtle  which  had  just  come  to  the 
surface  and  mistaking  it  for  a  chunk  or  a  minute  mud 
island  Mr.  Rat  proceeded  to  climb  on  top  of  his  turtle- 
ship's  back,  when  snap!  he  was  taken  by  a  hind  leg; 
then  such  a  jumping,  jerking,  diving  fight  for  freedom 
which  made  the  water  boil  until  the  wavelets  set  my 
dodler  dancing  like  a  buoy  on  the  ocean. 

Soon  all  was  calm  again,  rat  and  turtle  having  sunk 
out  of  sight,  my  dodler  was  again  floating  out  in  mid 
stream. 

I  lazily  turned  and  rested  my  elbow  on  the  grassy 
plat  and  viewed  the  "Johnny- jump-lips,"  daisies  and 
puccoon  that  everywhere  about  me  smiled  and  exhaled 
their  fragrance. 

Then  my  eyes  closed  and  soon  I  felt  that  pleasant 
sensation  of  slumbering  warmth  settle  over  my  body 
as  the  sun  came  from  under  a  fleecy  cloud,  when  all 
at  once  jerk,  jerk,  went  my  fishing  rod  almost  from  my 
sleepy  grasp. 

Fully  aroused,  I  jumped  to  my  feet.  The  dodler 
was  out  of  sight.  I  jerked  at  the  rod  and  slowly  and 
heavily  my  "what-ever-it-was"  came  toward  shore. 
Excitedly  I  grabbed  the  line  and  pulled  in.  To  my 
astonishment,  up  to  the  surface  came  the  musk-rat, 
turtle  and  the  "yellow  cat"  all  tangled  together. 

—Benjamin  Franklin  Buchanan. 
Rising  Sun. 


QUIS  EST  MAGNUS? 

How  calm,  how  sweet  the  hallowed  rest, — 
When  death  hath  claimed  its  own,— 

Of  Him  who  gave  the  world  the  best, 
And   claims   a   fair  renown. 

Who  held  in  life  one  purpose  true, — 

His  all  to  duty  given,— 
And  hearing  with  the  faithful  few, 

The  sacred  call  from  heaven. 

WTent  forth  to  do  for  human-kind, 

When  others  stood  aside, 
The  little  acts  whose  blessings  bind 
The  good,  the  pure,  the  tried. 

Of  man's  into  one  peaceful  lay, 

Wherein  the  whole  day  long 
Soft  music  scatters  night  away, 

And  life  is  one  sweet  song. 

Not  he  is  great  who  with  vain  greed 
Hoards   up   the   nation's   dross, 

But  he  who  takes  the  living  creed 
Of  Him   on   Calvary's  cross. 

And  to  mankind  about  him  strown 
Gi  es  joy,  and  strength,  and  aid. 

Points  to  the  sad  the  pathway  grown 
With  flowers  that  never   fade. 

Ah  !  sweet,  methinks, — when  life  is  o'er, 

And   dark   within   the  tomb 
The  body  sleeps  to  toil  no  more, 

Amid  encircling  gloom, — 

Will  be  the  peace  of  that  great  soul, 

In  truth's  own  valor  dressed, 
Which  found  inscribed  on  life's  hard  goal: 
"In   all   he  did   his  best!" 

-Winfield  Scott   Hiigel, 
Covington. 


A  MERRY  'XMAS. 

(To  My  Mother.) 

It's  merry  'Xmas,  mother,  I  hold  no  joys  from  you, 
1  count  the  gray  hairs  in  your  head  as  joys  that  you've 

passed  thro'. 

Though  you're  as  old  as  I  am  young, 
Lome's  tenderness  has  three-fold  tongue. 
For  fragrant  o'er  your  latter  days 
Tis  sunshine  of  my  childhood  days. 
Your  face  the  same  I  always  knew, 
Your  patient  smile  the  good  and  true, 
But  here  I  am  with  that  passed  thro' — 
An'  it's  merry  'Xmas,  mother,  I  hold  no  joys  from  you. 

Hangin'   them   stockings — a  thing  of  the   past — 

Has  faded  away  with  "Old  Santa"  at  last. 

And  the  sunbeams  that  you  gave  me 

Was  a  song  for  days  to  be, 

For   sweet    as    kisses    ling'ring    long, 

Was  melody  of  my  childhood's  song; — 

An'  that  welcome  face  of  yours  has  deep  furrows  in 

your  brow, 
But  I  see  that  smile  a  comin'  an'  they're  all  vanished 

now — 

There,  there — I  know  what  you've  passed  thro' — 
So  it's  merry  'Xmas,  mother,  I  hold  no  joys  from  you. 

An'  sickness  may  come  and  ketch  us  a  livin'  here  in 

town, 

An'  prices  may  go  up  and  wages  may  go  down, 
But  as  long  as  I'm  a  livin/  and  got  airy  a  dime, 
We'll  have  a  little  'Xmas  and  blessings  shall  be  thine ; 
For  God  is  watchin',  mother,  an'  we'll  keep  the  'Xmas 

true, 
vSo  smile  away  your  sorrows  an'  think  as  you  used  to 

do, 
When  'Xmas  was  a  baby — for  I  hold  no  joys  from  you. 

— Gail   Fielder. 
Winchester. 


TAT  PLOWING  CORN. 

"Whoa  haw  !  whoa  haw  !     Gee-ee-ee-e  ! 
Thun'er  and  nation,  Bill,  can't  you  see 
Where  you're  goin' !     Clear  out — gee^ee  ! 

You're  breakin'  down  the  corn. 
Confound  you  !    Just  look  what  you've  spiled. 
I  guess  restin's  makin'  you  wild — 
You'd  better  not  been  born." 

Poor  Pat,  who  thoroughly  loved  his  ale, 
Was  plowing  corn  within  a  vale 
Hard  by  the  town  of  Bloomingdale. 

At  once,  he  leaves  his  plow 
To  meet  his  friend  Jim  Carr  up  town, 
And  to  the  dram-shop  go  to  drown 

Those  cares  that  cloud  the  brow. 

Jim  set  the  first  drink  up  to  him 
And  then  he  "set  'em  up"  to  Jim; 
Both  roaring  with  their  merry  din 

Till  noon-time  reached  the  plain. 
Then  reeling  down  the  stony  hill, 
Pat  reached  the  plow  and  braying  Bill, 

And  turned  to  plow  again. 

When  halfway  down  along  the  row, 
A  distant  dinner  horn  did  blow 
Which  old  Bill  heeded  with  a  go, 
A  race  course  wouldn't  scorn. 

Sf  ******** 

"Aw-ee,  aw-ee,  aw-ee — ee — e! 

Thun'er  an'  nation,  man,  can't  you  see? 

With  legs  all  tangled  up — aw-ee, 

You're  breakin'  down  your  corn- 
Look  at  that  row  ;  see  what  you've  sp'iled. 
I  g  'ess  drinkin's  makin'  you  wild  ; 

You'd  better  not  been  born." 

— John  Gregory  Reidelbach. 
Winamac. 


•> 


\ 


,—~ 


WHEN  BAD  LUCK  COMES. 

When  bad  luck  comes  yer  way 

An'  everything  goes  wrong 
Don't  spend  yer  time  frettin' 

But  sing  some  happy  song. 

Jest  wear  a  patient,  cheerful  smile 

An'  to  yer  neighbors  say, 
Though   bad   luck's   comin'   fer  a   while, 

The  good  '11  come  some  day. 

Keep  the  lamp  of  hope  a-burnin' 

Through  misfortune's  darkest  night, 

Then  in  yer  path-way  will  be  strewn 
Rich  gems  of  pure  delight. 

— Homer  Winfield   Smith. 
Rainesville. 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

In  a  country  churchyard,  brown  and  sere, 
Where  violets  in  spring  are  peeping 

There's  a  sacred  spot,  to  me  so  dear, 
Tis  the  grave  where  mother's  sleeping. 

In  our  childhood's  day,  God  called  her  home, 

And  left  us  sadly  weeping. 
Yet,  to  me,  oft  His  solace  comes 

By  the  grave  where  mother's  sleeping. 

Naught  now  can  harm  that  lifeless  breast, 
Tho'  o'er  it  storms   be  sweeping, 

For  angels  guard  that  place  of  rest, — 
The  grave  where  mother's  sleeping. 

In  yonder  courts  at  Jesus'  side 

Her  angel  watch  she's  keeping, 
Lest  any  harm  should  those  betide 

Near  the  grave  where  mother's  sleeping. 

O,  Father,  when  sowing  here  is  o'er, 
And  has  come  the  time  of  reaping, 

May  we  meet  then  beyond  the  shore — 
'Yond  the  graves  where  we  lay  sleeping. 

— Fred  Robert   Farnair 
Chesterton. 


TO  ALL  WRITERS. 

If  with  his  pen 

One  shall  indite — 
Be  he  Hoosier,  or  alien  of  foreign  domain — 

A  truth  or  a  thought, 

By  which  good  may  be  wrought 

To  children  of  men 

Who  seek  after  light, 
That  writer,  though  humble,  has  not  lived  in  vain. 

—Ned  Thatcher. 
Anderson. 


WHEN  I  PLAYED  THE  PART  OF  SANTA  GLAUS. 

The  most  memorable  and  most  utterly  unforgetable  Christmas  in 
my  life  was  the  one  on  which  I  essayed  to  do  the  part  of  Santa 
Glaus  in  a  Sunday-school  entertainment.  The  committee  on  ar 
rangements  in  the  church  which  I  attended  (because  some  one  else 
attended  regularly  with  her  parents)  selected  me  to  play  Santa 
tor  the  one  and  particular  reason  that  I  knew  a  man  from  whom  I 
could  borrow  a  white  fur  overcoat  and  a  set  of  elongated  whiskers 
of  the  same  hue.  This  all  happened  years  ago,  and  I  was  at  that 
age  when  I  thought  playing  Santa  would  be  as  easy  as  I  afterward 
admitted  myself  to  have  been. 

Christmas  night  came  and  the  ladies  of  the  church  pasted  on 
my  whiskers  and  tucked  me  in  my  fur  shroud.  The  church  was 
packed  and  it  was  110  in  the  shade  of  the  gas  lights.  A  lot  of  little 
tots  came  forward  and  said  things  that  nobody  heard  beyond  the 
third  row;  then  the  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  announced 
that  Santa  Glaus  had  stopped  off  on  his  way  from  Lapland  to 
South  Pole,  and  that  he  was  waiting  outside  the  chimney  pot  with 
his  reindeer  and  a  corps  of  able  and  sprighty  assistants. 

That  was  the  signal  tor  me  to  pop  out  of  a  monstrous  fireplace  at 
the  rear  of  the  platform.  I  may  have  looked  cold  enough  to  start 
people  to  shivering,  but  I  observed  that  nobody  stopped  fanning. 
The  children  said  "Oo-oo-oo"  and  crimped  their  toes  with  excite 
ment.  The  old  people  laughed,  and  some  miserable  wretch  asked 
in  a  loud  and  malicious  tore  of  voice  if  I  didn't  want  to  come  over 
and  sit  by  the  register  awhile,  till  I  got  my  patent  leathers  warm? 
1  was  so  warm  that  I  imagined  I  was  about  to  slip  out  of  my 
coat  of  fur  on  account  of  the  perspiration.  My  first  duty  was  to  tell 
the  children  that  they  had  to  be  good  a  whole  year  or  I  wouldn't 
give  them  a  speck.  They  all  said  they'd  be  as  good  as  possible,  and 
I  began  to  dole  out  the  presents  to  my  assistants.  The  presents  hung 
on  a.  tree  and  they  had  a  stepladder  for  me  to  mount  in  my  efforts 
to  do  the  right  thing  by  the  little  ones. 

I  began  at  the  top  because  I  thought  it  would  be  easier  and 
safer  to  come  down  than  to  go  up.  There  is  where  I  displayed  great 
foresight.  It  was  much  easier  to  come  down.  Just  as  I  was  getting 
down  to  good,  hard  work  and  was  mispronouncing  the  badly  written 
names  of  the  children,  one  of  my  capable  and  over-assiduous  gnomes 
bumped  into  the  stepladder.  I  was  at  the  tip-top  and  on  tip-toe 
when  the  catastrophe  occurred.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to 
clutch  but  a  string  of  popcorn,  and  that  did  not  seem  to  bear  the 
wear  and  tear  of  concussion. 

I  fell  into  the  'tree-top,  and  down  came  Baby  Bunting  and  all. 
In  my  descent  I  stripped  that  glorious  tree  of  all  that  was  worth 
coveting,  but  I  left  my  whiskers  hanging  on  the  topmost  branch. 
The  tree  eventually  upset  and  the  ladder  caromed  off  the  superin 
tendent's  head,  and  there  was  nothing  left  but  a  fur  coat,  some 
evergreen  mayonaise  and  a  crestfallen  atmosphere.  The  worst  of 
it  was  that  the  tree  fell  across  the  mouth  of  the  fireplace  and  1 
had  to  stay  inside  the  church  and  say  the  things  under  my  breath 
that  I  wanted  to  say  to  the  stars.  Aside  from  this  particular  occa 
sion  all  other  Christmases  have  looked  alike  to  me. 

— George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
La  Fayette. 


TWO   BLOSSOMS. 

"Among  the  pit-falls  in  our  way 
The  most  of  us  walk  blindly; 
So,  men,  be  wary,  watch  and  pray, 
And  judge  your  brother  kindly." 

An  old  gentleman  mused  in  the  glorious  May  sunshine.  His 
grey  eyes,  dimmed  by  age,  rested  lovingly  on  the  huge  magnolia 
tree  that,  with  the  tall  lilac  bush,  cast  a  long  shadow  on  the 
geranium  bordered  park  walk.  He  inhaled  the  perfume  of  the 
blossoms  deeply,  as  he  sat  lost  in  thought.  Around  him  scampered 
a  cortege  of  merry  children,  playing  hide  and  seek,  quite  heedless 
of  the  sign:  "Keep  off  the  Grass."  Attracted  by  their  joyous 
laughter  he  looked  at  them  just  in  time  to  see  a  prankisome  Miss, 
who  had  been  hiding  behind  the  trunk  of  the  magnolia  tree,  reach 


up  and  touch  a  delicate  petal  of  one  of  the  tender  blossoms.  Soon 
after  the  youngsters  had  skipped  away,  some  women  sauntered  to 
the  same  tree,  and  took  some  of  the  flowers,  examining  the  bud 
the  child  had  touched,  but  it  was  not  plucked.  More  people  went  to 
the  tree;  more  blossoms  were  gathered;  still  the  flower  was  left 
caressed  by  the  breeze. 

The  Old  Gentleman  resting  heavily  on  his  hickory  cane  hobbled 
to  the  tree  to  ascertain  the  reason  for  the  bud  still  being  there. 
Carefully  his  shrivelled  hands  raised  the  exquisitely  white  bud; 
thoughtfully  he  inspected  it.  As  he  broke  the  slender  stem  the 
iragrance  of  the  magnolia  was  almost  stifling.  Examining  the 
bud  closely  he  found  running  along  the  edge  of  one  of  the  graceful 
petals  a  slight  discoloration  caused  by  the  mischievous  finger? 
of  the  child.  Thus,  in  an  innocent  way,  the  beauty  of  the  bud 
had  been  marred.  To  the  people  it  was  imperfect  and  by  them 
cast  aside.  But  the  Old  Gentleman  had  been  attracted  by  its 
sweetness,  and  to  him  it  had  not  defect. 

While  thinking  of  the  bud,  which  he  listlessly  held  in  his  hand. 
the  Old  Gentleman  looked  steadily  at  a  handsome,  young  woman, 
from  whom  a  group  of  youths  and  maidens  were  standing  aloof. 
To  his  mind  she  was  infinitely  fairer  than  those  casting  scornful 
glances  at  her.  She  seemed  as  far  removed  from  the  others  as 
the  bud  in  his  hand  was  removed  from  the  blossoms  on  the 
trees. 

The  Old  Gentleman  knit  his  bristling  brow  when  he  recalled  the 
unsavory  reports  current  about  this  young  woman;  for  he  knew 
their  falsity.  He  wondered  if  they  had  ever  learned  the  parable 
of  the  mote:  It  certainly  was  applicable  to  them. 

Indeed  this  young  woman's  numerous  acts  of  kindness  and  charity 
had  repeatedly  manifested  the  nobility  of  her  character,  which  alas, 
was  hidden  by  the  reputation  she  bore.  Ah!  had  not  her  many 
good  deeds  been  sent  into  the  world  unnoticed,  just  as  the  frag 
rance  of  the  bud  had  been?  But  he  smiled  at  this  thought,  for  he 
remembered  that  she  had  been  appreciated  by  one  person.  A  child 
reared  in  poverty;  whose  environments  were  the  worst;  whose 
father  was  a  dissipated,  evil  man;  whose  mother  was  dead — fully 
appreciated  the  sterling  qualities  of  that  young  woman.  To  this 
unfortunate  little  girl  the  woman  went  and  fearlessly  snatched 
her  from  the  fathomless  abyss  into  which  she  was  about  to  be 
plunged,  guided  her  along  the  path  of  righteousness,  from  which  the 
young  woman  herself  had  never  strayed.  The  Old  Gentleman 
asked  himself:  "How  many  of  the  young  people,  who  are  now  shun 
ning  her,  would  have  done  likewise?"  The  answer  came  back: 
"Possibly  none." 

The  young  woman  turned  to  leave  the  park.  She  caught  the 
friendly  twinkle  in  the  Old  Gentleman's  eyes  and,  hesitatingly  ven 
tured  to  smile.  He  graciously  returned  it.  The  young  woman 
walked  on  happily.  The  smile  was  a  balm  to  her  troubled  heart — it 
made  her  forget  the  frowns  she  had  been  receiving.  The  Old  Gen 
tleman's  eyes  brightened  as  he  watched  her  disappear.  To  him  her 
beautiful  face,  blooming  with  the  rosy  coloring  of  youth,  was  as 
sweet  as  the  blossom  on  his  knee.  The  magnolia  was  to  him,  a 
symbol  of  her  blighted  name  and  he  considered  her  to  be  as  pure 
as  the  perfume  of  the  blossom  he  was  holding. 

—Blanche  Clothilde  Johnson. 
Evansville. 


AT   CURTAIN-FALL. 

Soon,  I  think,  will  fall  the  curtain  on  life's  tragi-comedy, 
Though  I  wait  her  all  unknowing  what  my  few  last  lines  shall  be. 
i,  long  since,  my  plot  unraveled,  heedless  how  the  critics  caviled, 
And  my  part  is  now  so  little  there's  no  longer  need  of  me. 

In  the  far,  fair  days  behind  me  when  I  first  was  on  the  stage, 
I  thought  I  should  be  the  hero;  to  the  world  I  flung  my  gage. 
Ne'er  a  heart  than  mine  beat  gladder,  fame  seemed  as  a  smooth- 

runged  ladder, 
Ardent,  glowing  heart  of  boyhood,  how  it  chills  and  fails  with  ago. 

Then  the  Master  of  the  drama  gave  an  ancient  role  to  play — 
Lover — in  the  old,  yet  ever-new  and  ever-wondrous  way, 
Ah,  the  shine  and  shade  of  living,  hasty  quarrels,  sweet  forgiving! 
Oh,  the  marvel  of  the  moonlight!     Oh,  the  miracle  of  day! 

All  our  speech  was  set  to  music,  mut-'c  our  two  glad  hearts  made; 
I  no  more  craved  fame  and  fortune,  loved  the  minor  parts  we  played. 
But  the  joy-dial's  flying  finger  would  not  let  her  further  linger; 
Done  her   sweet  part  in  the  drama,  from  my   clasping  arms   she 
strayed. 

Always  earth  is  glad,  nor  cares  she  what  of  loss  men's  hearts  may 

hold; 
Still  the   red-bird    called   his   sweetheart,   still   the   autumn   leaves 

turned   gold, 
Still    came    winter's    dazzling    glory,    still    the    spring-tide's    flow'r- 

writ  story, 
Lyric  winds  sang  through  the  tree  tops  crooning  dear  old   songs 

of   old. 

And  soft-sandaled    years    strewed    heart's-ease    and    white    poppies 

in  their  flight — 
Naught  is  left  me  from  that  love-dream,  save  sometime  a  sob   at 

night, 
And   a  heart  thrilled   through    its    sadness,    oftentimes   by   other's 

gladness, 
And   a  sweet   hope   ever  present  that  somewhere   'twill   all   come 

right. 

Yes.  the  play  is  almost  over,  soon  the  curtain-bell  will  call; 
Would  I'd  said  my  speeches  better!     Ah,  well!  He  who  wrote  it  all 
Knows  how  hard  it  was  to  render;    He  can  be  but  kind  and  tender 
"Well  done,  child,  you  did  your  best,"  I  think  He'll  say  at  curtain 
fall. 

— Ethel  Bowman  Ronald. 
Marion. 


EVOLUTION. 

I  will  take  my  ancient  lyre  in  my  weak  and  trembling  hand, 
Though  the  song  I  find  within  it  may  be  hard  to  understand. 
Tis  the  song  that  Nature's  singing;  listen  to  the  whispering  leaves, 
Read    its   notes   in   vale  and   mountain    and   in   history's   garnered 
sheaves. 

You  have  often  felt  its  music,  with  its  solemn  undertone 
As  in  silence  you  were  musing  on  the  mystical  unknown, 
Or  have  thrilled  unto  its  cadence,  in  a  night  of  dread  and  woe, 
As  you  breathed  the  sulphur  vapor  of  the  passion-fires  below. 

Have  you  comprehended,  fully,  its  sweet  music,  as  a  whole, 
As  it  sings  the  evolution  of  the  spark  into  the  soul? 
Nothing  is  that  is  not  changing,  filled  with  palpitating  power, 
From  the  march  of  solar  systems  to  the  perfume  of  a  flower. 

From  the  mire  and  dust  beneath  us,  from  the  filthy,  crawling  thing 
To  the  poor  and  cringing  menial  and  the  proud,  empurpled  king, 
All  creation's  marching  onward,  not  a  step  is  made  in  vain, 
Death  is  better  birth  and  wiser,  knowledge  finds  its  root  in  pain. 

We  are  part  of  all  beneath  us,  we  are  part  of  all  beyond, 

And  the  tiger  in  our  being  greets  the  angel,  pure  and  fond, 

And    the    angel    once    was    tiger,    learned    the    lessons,    crude    and 

strange, 
Climbed    to   higher    grades    knowing   through    the    spiral    route    of 

change. 

Do  not  murmur  o'er  a  sorrow,  do  not  trouble  at  a  crime 
Or  lament  the  slow  progression  up  the  rugged  hills  of  Time; 
Nothing  is  that  is  not  needed  to  evolve  a  grander  birth, 
Nothing  is  but  builds  the  wisdom  of  the  graduating  earth. 

Edwin  Elmore  Parker. 
Ft.  Wayne. 


HOW   TO    MAINTAIN   THE   SOIL. 

In  the  study  of  the  question  of  fertility  of  the  soil  we  have  belie! 
that  there  is  not  one  atom  more  or  less  of  anything  in  this  world 
today  than  there  was  when  it  first  came  from  the  hand  of  the 
Creator. 

Nature  has  constantly  kept  two  opposite  forces  at  work,  the  one 
tearing  down,  and  the  other  building  up.  It  is  to  this  tearing  down 
force  that  the  earth  owes  its  fertility;  and  to  it  we  must  look 
for  its  continuance.  No  difference  what  the  component  elements 
are  that  operate  to  tear  down  or  change  the  hard  dry  minerals  in 
the  earth  into  food  for  plants,  it  is  enough  to  know  that  sunshine, 
moisture  and  fair  air  are  three  of  the  main  agents  in  the  process, 
and  that  the  deeper  and  freer  these  three  agents  are  permitted  to 
penetrate  the  ground  the  deeper  and  more  abundant  will  be  ine 
available  plant  food.  If  viou  paint  an  iron  bar  and  expose  it  to  the 
open  air  the  decay  would  be  slow;  put  another  out  without  the 
paint  and  the  scales  of  rust  upon  it  will  soon  give  evidence  of 
decay. 

In  like  manner  the  finer  you  pulverize  the  soil,  the  faster  will  you 
liberate  plant  food. 

If  by  long  continued  crops,  removing  the  entire  crop  without 
returning  anything  in  the  way  of  vegetation  you  have  used  up,  in 
crops  removed,  the  original  vegetable  matter,  no  difference  how 
fine  you  have  pulverized  the  soil  it  will  pack  so  closely  that  the  air 
and  sunshine  can  only  penetrate  a  few  inches  deep,  which  depth 
will  mark  the  depth  of  your  available  plant  food.  And  it  will  not 
take  many  years  more  to  so  impoverish  the  soil  that  it  will  not 
respond  even  to  the  use  of  commercial  fertilizers  because  your  treat 
ment  has  sealed  the  ground  against  the  entrance  of  the  agents 
that  change  minerals  into  food  for  plants  as  completely  as  fruit 
is  preserved  from  similar  agents  when  sealed  im  in  a  jar. 

Roots  of  any  kind,  allow  the  air  to  follow  them  deep  into  the 
ground,  and  when  they  decay  they  add  humus  to  the  ground,  with 
out  which  crops  can  no  more  grow  than  light  bread  can  be  made 
without  yeast. 

If  crops  have  been  properly  cultivated  through  the  season  when 
they  cease  growing  there  will  be  considerable  plant  food  that  was 
released  by  continued  pulverizing  the  soil,  and  not  used  up  by  the 
crop,  which  if  left  alone  would  leak  away  and  be  lost.  But  if 
some  catch  crop  be  turned  under  while  in  a  green  and  tender  state, 
will  not  only  hand  over  to  the  succeeding  crop  what  would  other- 
lise  have  been  lost,  but  benefit  the  ground  in  the  way  previously 
indicated. 

— Leander  Chapman  Fish. 

Shoals. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

Dear  country,  the   hope  of  the  valiant  and  free, 
Thy  exiles  afar  are  dreaming  of  thee, 

No  fields  of  the  earth  so  enchantingly  shine, 

No  air  breathes  such  incense,  such  music  as  thine. 

Oh  union  of  state,  Oh  union  of  souls, 
Thy  promise  awaits,  thy  future  unfolds, 

And  earth  at  the  dawning  is  hailing  the  sun, 
That  rises  where  people  and  ruler  are  one. 

The  greatest,  the  grandest,  the  home  of  the  free, 

The  echoes  of  justice  and  true  liberty 
Are  heralded  from  ocean  to  east  and  to  west, 

In  our  own  native  country,  the  home  of  the  blest. 

Sing  loud  our  hosannas,  our  country  proclaim, 
No  other  excels  it  in  hope,  love,  or  name. 

The  essence  of  glory  in  thy  banner  of  peace, 
May  its  influence  grow,  its  power  increase. 

Oh  freedom  of  life,  Oh  freedom  of  soul, 

Our  nation's  our  hope,  our  Christ  is  our  goal, 

No  tyrant  to  govern  where  freedom  has  trod, 
Our  ruler's  the  people,  our  ruler  is  God. 

Oh  union  of  truth,  Oh  unicn  of  love, 

Thy  insignia  was  given  by  one  from  above, 

Thy  stars  shall  e'er  shine  as  a  pure  beacon  light, 
And  guide  every  nation  to  justice  and  right. 

— J.  Filmore  Laird. 
Tippecanoe. 


A  SUMMER  GIRL. 

O  amber  evening,  O  Suzanne ! 
The  high  Kentucky  hill  is  lit 
With  gracious  glory  where  the  sun 

Points  level  to  the  top  of  it ; 
The  river-breezes  rise  and  sigh, 

The  mists  go  up,  the  dark  comes  down, 
And  faint  and  fainter,  blue  and  high, 

The  smoke  hangs  over  yonder  town. 

O  waves,  O  willows,  O  Suzanne  ! 

The  waves  are  laughing  at  the  prow  ; 
The  willow?  reach  their  slender  leaves 

To  touch  the  curls  above  your  brow  ; 
The  waves  are  laughing  at  the  prow,— 

The  waves  are  weeping  on  the  sand  ; — 
The  light  curves   up,  the   dark  creeps  down 

Upon  us,  sitting  hand  in  hand. 

And  O  my  darling,  O  Suzanne, 

We'll  tie  the  boat  and  go  ashore, 
We'll  tie  the  boat  and  touch  the  land; 

But  first,  ah,  kiss  me  one  time  more, 
And  one  lime  more,  before  we  part — 

The  daylight's  gone,  the  breezes  sigh, 
The  waters  grieve  upon  their  way 

As  I  on  mine,  Suzanne !    Good  bye. 

— Olive  Sanxay. 
Madison. 


APRIL  SHOWERS. 

Capricious,  fanciful  and  ever  changing  is  old  mother  earth,  yet 
in  all  her  moods  we  love  her  still,  in  each  of  her  whims  she  is  more 
irresistible  than  the  last.  Today  she  is  spoiling  her  bright  eyes 
with  tears,  but  artful  creature,  she  is  hiding  her  face  only  to  re 
appear  smilingly,  coaxing,  teasing,  more  fascinating  than  ever.  And 
the  tears?  They  have  a  purpose,  it  is  accomplished.  They  have 
fallen  on  her  breast  like  messengers  to  unknown  lands  bidding  the 
flowers  to  awaken  in  their  bright  colors  and  breathe  their  sweetest 
breaths  and  beautify  their  mistress. 

I  opened  my  window  and  leaned  far  out  to  catch  the  delicious 
air  that  the  fresh  April  shower  had  shaken  from  the  folds  of  itb 
waterproof,  and  as  I  sat  saturating  myself  with  its  freshness  a 
brown  coated  friend  perched  himself  in  the  topmost  branch  of  a 
tree  near  by  and  from  under  his  wet  coat  he  drew  out  his  little 
old  violin.  With  a  happy  little  toss  of  his  head  and  a  merry  wink 
from  his  brown  eye  he  looked  at  me  as  to  say:  "You  think  my  violin 
out  of  tune  or  a  string  broken  because  I've  carried  it  in  the  rain, 
but  listen."  And  from  the  strings  he  brought  heart  songs — songs 
without  words — the  sweetest  ones  of  all. 

—Ella  Schnee  Bennett. 
New  Harmony. 


TOMORROW. 


(From  "Starsbine  and  Dew.") 

We  live  too  much  in  our  To-morrow — 

The  day  that  never  comes — 
We  reap  in  it,  we  beg,  we  borrow, 
We  pay  our  tax  on  joy  and  sorrow, 
And  long — and  long — for  that  To-morrow — 

To-morrow   never   comes: ! 

To-morrow's    flowers,   To-morrow's   singing, 

Sweet   laughter  runs  to  tears, — 
To-morrow,  think  whaf  it  is  bringing! — 
To-morrow,  hope  is  ever  springing 
Up  just  to  hear  To-morrow's  singing; 
When    laughter   runs   to   tears. 

We  hope — the  hope  dies  out  in  fever — 

The  Wide  Eyes  look  in  ours, — 
Wre  pray,  and  then  we  hear  forever 
The  wings  of  sighs — Ah,  God!  deliver, 
And  make  us  fearless  by  that  fever 
To  face  those  Eyes  in  ours ! 

To-morrow's  dawn  is  never  given 

To  break  upon  us  all ; 
We  wake  before  To-morrow's  heaven 
Wakes  for  us,  and  our  lives  are  riven — 
Though  we  implore  the  Light  is  given 
Never  unto  us  all ! 

— Remington  Allen  Johnston, 
Ossian. 


HER  WORDS. 

If  you  will  follow  I  will  shed 
Purest  roses  where  you  tread. 

THE  ANSWER. 

No  sweeter  language  ever  fell 
From  mortal  tongue  or  pen. 

The   sacred   and   enchanting   spell 
Awakens  love's  bright  ken. 

For  who  would  choose  a  thorny  path 
Where  goading  frowns   prevail, 

And  where  for  kindness  tempered  wrath 
The  quietude  assail. 

But  where  friendship's  flowers  bloom 
And  kissed  by  zephyrs  bland, 

The  soul  is  led  above  life's  gloom 
By  inspiration's  hand. 

I  will  follow  where  you  go, 

If  roses  bloom  for  me, 
It  makes  a  paradise  below 

Of  Eden  purity. 

Then  strew  the  flowers  along  my  way, 

Life's  vista  dark  to  cheer. 
Not  wait,  them  on  my  casket  lay, 

When  this  poor  clay  is  sear. 

\Vhat  would  I  care,  my  spirit  fled, 

For  wreaths  to  decorate 
This  form,  dressed  for  its  lowly  bed; 

Ah,  that  would  be  too  late. 

Then  strew  the  flowers  while  I  live 

Mv  lonely  path  above, 
For  them  pure  friendship  I  will  give, 
That  hand  will  ever  love. 

— Edward  Danville  Wright. 
Coatesville. 


J 


LULLABY  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 


Lullaby,  hushaby,  flowers  go  to  sleep, 
Mother  is  coming  with  the  white  sheet, 
.She  will  tuck  you  all  snug  in  your  beds, 
While  she  is  covering  the  rest  of  our  heads. 
Lullaby,  hushaby,  flowers  go  to  sleep, 
Mother  is  coming  with  the  white  sheet. 

Lullaby,  hushaby,  the  flowers  are  asleep, 
Mother  is  here  with  the  white  sheet, 
Now  she  is  tucking  them  all  snug  in  their  beds 
Now  she  is  covering  the  rest  of  our  heads. 
Lullaby,  hushaby,  the  flowers  are  asleep, 
Mother  is  here  with  the  white  sheet. 

Wake  up !  Wake  up !  Spring  calls  out, 
Wake  up,  little  flowers,  the  birdies  are  here 
Singing  their  songs  and  flying  about, 
Waiting  patiently    for  you  to  appear. 
Wake  up,  little  flowers,  the  birdies  are  here 
Waiting  patiently   for  you  to  appear. 

Why  should  we  linger,  the  flowers  said 
Come,  let  us  be  on  our  feet, 
For  every  sign  of  winter  has  fled, 
But  this  "one,  our  mother's  white  sheet. 
Why  should  we  linger,  the  flowers  said, 
For  every  sign  of  winter  has  fled. 

Hurrah!  Hurrah!  cried  the  birds  all  together, 
For  mother  is  gone  and  now  we  are  free, 
Oh  !  how  we  love  this  bright  summer  weather, 
And  the  flowers  are  here  too,  you  see. 
Hurrah !  Hurrah  !  cried  the  birds  all  together, 
Oh !  how  we  love  this  bright  summer  weather. 

— Athol  Biggs. 
Warsaw. 


THE  MISSION  OF  LIFE. 

One  summer,  a  beautiful  morning 
Crept  in  with  the  passing  time, 
And  invited  the  life  of  the  valley 
To  weigh  with  a  theme  sublime. 

The  oak,  and  the  rose,  and  the  thistle 
Were  first  to  engage  in  the  strife, 
As  to  which  best  fulfilled  its  mission, 
And  what  was  its  mission  in  life. 

The  oak  claimed  the  throne  of  the  forest 
Because  of  his  strength  and  his  age, 
And  maintained  that  he  sheltered  the  weary 
From  the  sun,  and  the  storm  in  its  rage. 

The  rose  made  a  bow  to  the  breezes, 
Thus  showing  her  humble  care, 
And  said  that  she  clothed  all  sorrow 
With  her  petals   bright  and   fair. 

The  thistle  lamented  her  treatment, 
And  gave  as  the  reason  why, 
That  she  never  once  gave  battle 
Till  she  heard  the  battle  cry. 

Let  the  world,  then,  be   consistent, 
And  attribute  all  that's  good 
To  the  one  who  made  of  his  chances 
The  best  of  life  that  .he  could. 

— Walton  F.  Stover. 
Linton. 


O  AMERICA,  WHAT  A  BURNING   SHAME   IS 

THIS! 

The  nineteen  centuries  that  have  gone  by 

Hath  seen    no  peace.   "War!"    "War!"    has   been 

the  cry 

And  still  is  heard.     All  nations  of  the  earth 
With  war-like  armor  on  belie  the  birth 
Of  Mary's  Son.      The  good  He  came  to  do 
Must  stand  aside  and  never  will  be  true 
Until  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  pause 
And  sheathe  their  swords,  and  listen  to  His  laws. 
But,  then,  ah  me,  I  see  a  poor  Boer  die, 
Across  the  Veldt  I  hear  a  mother's  cry, 
And  yet  the  nations  stand  and  see  it  all ; 
Let  greed,  and  lust,  and  might  the  brave  enthrall, 
Brave  Kruger  and  De  Wet  must  stand  aside 
And  hear  the  Lion  roar  until  his  Hide 
Contains  their  Lamb.    My  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 
My  heart  beats  fast,  my  soul  is  full  of  fears. 
Beneath  our  own  bright  flag  I  see  a  sight 
That  startles  me.     We  know  it  is  not  right; 
Across  the  sea  our  boys  have  died  in  vain, 
We  sought  to  free  a  land  from  cruel  Spain. 
The  peace  we  give  is  of  no  better  brand, 
A  Stain  is  on  our  Flag,  Blood  is  on  our  Hand. 
Is  there  no  hope,  no  beckoning  ray  of  light 
Must  we  go  down  in  darkness  of  the  night  ? 
Is  a  Phil'pino  of  so  little  worth 
That  we  must  shed  his  blood  and  stain  the  earth 
Until  it  cries  to  heaven  and  brings  us  shame 
And  they  shall  hate  our  flag,  our  very  name? 
For  shame !  for  shame !  let  us  at  least  be  just. 
Give  them  their  freedom,  or  their  honor  trust. 

— Samuel  Janes. 
Pittsboro. 


THE  POSTMAN. 

How  welcome  the    omul  of  the  postman's  knock- 
As  he  goes  from  street  to  street, 
No  steps  more  welcome  upon  the  walk 
Than  those  of  his  busy  feet. 

The  tidings  of  cheer  and  happy  thoughts 
Have  found  their  various  ways, 
And  friends  tho'  afar,  near  are  brought 
To  brighten  our  weary  days. 

From  youthful  heart  and  the  tiny  hand 
Come  the  lines  as  precious  as  gems, 
Like  flowers  in  May  that  brighten  the  land 
And  in  memory  live  till  life  ends. 

The  hopeful  missive  from  youth  and  maid, 
His  bundles  ne'er  fail  to  disclose, 
The  \vriting,  if  humble,  no  word  will  be  said, 
The  theme's  as   fresh  as  a  rose. 

Thrice  welcome  the  sound  of  the  postman's  step, 
As  he  journeys  from  door  to  door, 
Brings  joy  for  today,  and  hope  for  us  yet, 
And  love  for  the  wealthy  and  poor. 

— Priscilla  Ainge- 
Elkhart. 


MY  DESIRE. 


I  want  my  life  to  be  the  humble  means 

Of  bringing  sunshine  where  the  clouds  of  sorrow  roll ; 

To  help  the  helpless  in  their  hours  of  need ; 

And  save  some  dying  soul. 

I  want  to  cheer  some  one  along  life's  way, 

To  wipe  away  the  tears  from  weary,  weeping   eyes 

To  bear  some  weaker  brother's  heavy  load ; 

And  help  the  fallen  rise. 

If  by  some  deed  of  mine,  or  word  of  love 

I  comfort  some  sad  life  now  filled  with  aching  pain, 

Bring  healing  to  some  bleeding  heart, 

My  life  is  not  in  vain. 

If  I  can  cause  hope  to  spring  up  anew 

In  some  despairing  soul  where  hope  and  taith  nave 

died* 
Or  often  sorrow  in  some  saddened  heart 

I  shall  be  satisfied. 

— Robert   Blunt. 

Austin. 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

When  I  was  young  and  the  world  seemed  bright 
And  flowers  were  my  chief  delight 
I   planted  in  a   favorite   spot, 
The  little  flower,  Forget  Me  Not. 

The  plant  was  given  me  by  a  friend 
Who  said  his  friendship  ne'er  would  end, 
It  shed  its  fragrant  sweet  perfume 
Each  night  and  morning  thro'  my  room. 

I  left  my  plant  in  other's  care 

My  fate  the  blossom  could  not  share, 

I  left  it  with  the  faithful  friend 

Who  said  his  friendship  ne'er  would  end. 

Today  across  the  deep  blue  sea 

A  dainty  missive  came  to  me ; 

It  said,  Tho'  you  dear  friend  are  gone 

Forget  Me  Not — It  still  blooms  on. 

And  when  in  other  lands  you  see 
This  little  flower  so  dear  to  me 
Keep  in  your  heart  one  tender  spot 
For  the  little  flower — Forget  Me  Not. 

— Jane  Smyth  Edwards  Jones. 
Washington. 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING  AT  RED  CROSS 
PARK . 


The  year  is  dead,  I  saw  him  die  ; — 
I  heard  his  last  expiring  sigh ; 
He  breathed  his  last  in  midnight  gloom, 
And  Time  conveyed  him  to  the  tomb. 
His  grave,  I  saw  no  mourners  hem  ; 
As    night-winds    sighed    his    requiem. 
No  eye  dropped  one  regretful  tear, 
A  tribute  to  the  buried  year. 


The  year  is   dead !      Faults   great   and   small 
Are    gone   with    him,  beyond   recall ; 
Then  let  oblivion's  waters  hide 
Them,    all    profound,   beneath    the    tide. 
"Good  lord  what  fools  we  mortals  be!" 
We  spend  our  lives  in  revelry ; 
Till  time  and  death,  with  fixed  decree 
Submerge  us  in  oblivion's  sea. 

Dear   God,  with  loving  hand   restrain 
From  mad  conceits  and  fables  vain, 
Our  childish  ways  ;  mid  mirth  and  pain, 
Till  death,  or  new  years  comes  again ! 

— Joseph  Gardner. 
Bedford. 


* 


MY   NEIGHBOR'S    BOY    AND    MINE. 

The  high-school  had  a  show  last  night, 

And  of  all   the  stars   to  snine; 
None    surpassed   in   briliancy, 

My    neighbor's    boy   and    mine. 

They  were  stationed  at  the   entrance. 

Inside  the  swinging  door; 
And  took  up  tickets  right  and   left, 

Like  they'd  been  there  before. 

They   took  no   part  with   the   darkey   crowd, 

That  did  the  minstrel  act ; 
But  when  the  railroad  farce  came  on, 

They  got  right  on  the  track. 

My  neighbor's  boy   had  an  easy  part, 

Jist  walked  in  the  depo' ; 
And  sot  down  there  till  some  one  said, 

'Twas  time  for  him  to  go. 

My  boy  played   the  "komical"   role, 

The  country  Jake,  and  farmer; 
With   whiskers   red,   and  stogy  boots, 

Now  wasn't  he  a  charmer. 

He  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  looked, 

Jist  like  a  country  dunce ; 
He  hadn't  a  word  to  say  in  the  play, 

And  they  didn't  prompt  him  once. 

When  he  got  up  to  cross  the  stage, 

With  a  real  farmer  stride ; 
The  audience  seemed  to  be  so  pleased, 

My  bosom  swelled  with  pride. 

They  encored  him  all  over  the  house, 

His  mother  was  wild  with  joy ; 
We  never  dreamed   such   honors  wouM    fall, 

Upon  our  darling  boy. 

—  John   Emery  Troutman. 
Rochester. 


AN  ACHING  HEART. 

My  sad-worn  heart  is  slowly  breaking, 
While  time  onward  wings  its  way, 

The  endless  monotony  of  constant  aching 
Will  finally  reach  its  goal  some  day. 

I  view  the  past — 'tis  filled  with  gloom, 
The  present  is  daily  burthen  bearing; 

I  realize  meeting  my  eternity  and  doom 
Where  life  ceases,  and  I'm  done  caring. 

Welcome  hope,  come  bring  me  cheer ; 

'Though  your  presence  only  lasts  the  while 
I  rest — knowing  your  strength  is   near; 

In  peace,  I'll  let  my  sad  heart  smile. 

Your  powerful  balm  can  stay  the  pain — 
Lull  the  aching  void  with  peaceful  art; 

Your  heavenly  mission  won't  be  in  vain, 
But,  quickly,  you'll  heal  my  broken  heart, 

With  inspiration's  life-giving  embrace, 

You'll  peacefully  calm  and  still  my  breast, 

Worldl/  tempests  you'll  help  me  face 
And  my  aching  heart  soothe  to  rest. 

Rest,  rest  from  trouble,  sorrow  and  grief; 

My  soul  with  rapturous  joy  you'll  fill ; 
My  pathway  lighten  across   rocks   and   reef, 

'Till  in  triumph  I'll  anchor,  by  God's  will. 

O !  blessed  hope,  o'er  life's  surging  sea 
Waft  me — never,  never  from  me  part, 

Or,  my  aim  and  efforts  will  useless  be, 
While  sojourning  here  with  an  aching  heart. 

— Mary  Elizabeth  Fiscus. 
Coal  City. 


THE  SPANISH  FLEET. 

Silently  there  steamed  into 

Manila's  treacherous  bay, 
The  commodore  whom  fate  had  named 

To  stand  in  front — some  day. 

Self  was  not  predominant, 

But  there  was  work  to  do ; 
Each  one  was  at  his  post — 

They  bade  the  world  adieu. 

There  lay  the  Spanish  fleet. 

Stubborn  as  an  angry  bull ; 
But  Dewey  calmly  swept  the  coast- — 

The  man  who's  always  mindful. 

Ah,  what  a  calm  !  'tis  always  so 

Before   a  fearful   storm  ; 
Then  came  the  simple  order 

As  words  were  ever  born. 

The  constant  roar  of  shot  and  shell 

Played  upon  the  fleet — 
Leaped  and  ground  like  a  nether  stone.. 

And  crushed  like  weighty  sleet. 

Round  upon  round  was  poured 
By  brave  boys  behind   the   guns; 

'Twas  an  awful  hour  of  death 
For  Spain's  defiant  sons. 

Burning,   sinking,   bursting, 

One  by  one  the  ships  were  dying, 

While  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were  waving 
And  Dewey's  missiles  flying. 

"Cease  firing!"  The  mists  have  cleared — 

Where  once  was  living  breath, 
Now  wrapped  in  folds  of  water, 

The  foe  asleep  in  death. 

'Twas  a  glorious  victory 

For  Dewey  and  his  men  ; 

'Till  the  Earth  shall  melt  with  fervent  heat, 
The  glory  will  last  till  then. 

—George   Edward  Smith 
Flovds  Knob. 


26 


SUMMER   NIGHT. 

The  dreamy  night  again  is  come ; 

The  moon  and  stars  to  make  it  fair 
Shine    from    the    heaven's    azure    dome, 

And  with  soft  radiance  fill  the  air. 
'Tis  royal  summer !     Crown  her  queen 

With  gems  her  own  warm  heart  has  bro't, 
Sweet  Mowers,  fairest  earth  has  seen, 

With  golden,  shining  wheat  inwrought. 

We  sit  within  the  vine-wreathed  door 

Where  roses  breathe  their  odors  sweet ; 
The  leaves  that  bend  the  portal  o'er 

Cast  dancing  shadows  at  our  feet. 
These  leaves  that  through  the  sunny  day 

"Clapped  all  their  little  hands  in  glee," 
As   night's   fantastic   shadows   play, 

Still  in  their  dreams  wave  merrily. 

O  night,   thy  glories  to  unfold, 

How   slowly   did  the   day  decline, 
And  close  its  gates  of  burnished  gold 

To  leave  these  realms  of  beauty  thine  f 
We  waited  for  thy  dewy  wings, 

Thy  silent  feet,  thy  cooling  hands ; 
Thy  softened  light  new  pleasure  brings. 

And  care  aloof  in  shadow  stands. 

Thou  bringest  blessings  silent  night ! 

Then  let  thy  moments  slowly  wane, 
To  brinp"  another  morning's  light, 

To  bring  the  hours  of  care  again. 

— Eliza  LaBoiteaux  Brown, 
Liberty. 


"INDIANA." 


As   o'er   our   country   proudly   floats 
Our  glorious  "star-spangled  banner/' 

We  wonder  sometimes  which  one  of  the  stars 
Represents  our  own  Indiana. 

There  should  ever  be  one  shining  star, 
In  this  beautiful  bright  constellation, 

Whose  effulgent  rays,  should  dazzle  the  rest 
As  it  peacefully  waves  o'er  the  nation. 

This  single  star  we  will  cherish  and  love, 
We  have  christened  it — "Grand  Indiana." 

May  its  brilliancy  never  fade  or  be  dimmed, 
For  its  people  are  gentle  of  manner. 

Our  prairies  stretch  far  away  to  the  north, 
Pearly  lakes  fitly  jewel  the  land, 

Our  forests  are  noted  far  over  the  world, 
And  our  caverns  are  famous  and  grand. 

Indiana  is  justly  proud  of  its  schools, 
Its  churches,  and  culture  and  art; 

And  proud  of  its  cities,  and  pleasant  homes, 
Where  all  are  welcomed  with  generous  hea-.t, 

Indiana  is  famed  for  her  natural  gas, 
And  her  valuable  quarries  of  stone. 

She  is  equally  proud  of  her  mines  of  coal, 
For  her  minerals  are  second  to  none. 

Indiana's  fair   girls  and  brave  boys, 
Are  scattered  all  over  the  earth  ; 

But  in  whatever  clime  they  may  be, 
They  still  boast  of  their  Hoosier  birth. 

From  the  esthetic  east,  to  the  rugged  west, 
From  the  great  lakes  to  mild  Louisiana, 

Where'er  we  go,  let  us  never  forget 
To  love  and  respect  Indiana. 

— Oscar   Canada   Salyards. 
Shoals. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "THE  SULTAN'S  LAST 
RACE-" 


I  longed   for,  yet  dreaded,  the   message, 

That  my  pathway  in  life  would  decide ; 
Was  Death,  that  grim  monster,  the  victor? 

Was  she  at  that  moment  his  bride? 
Yet  Hope,  oft  delusive,  still  lingered, 

Though  with  ruin  the  ranches  were  gray; 
On  the  brink  of  despair,  I  remembered, 

It  was  SULTAN  that  bore  her  away. 

The  fire  burned  out,  ere  the  sun  went  down ; 

It  was  then,  that  I  ceased  to  chafe  ; 
For  the  Major  rode  up  with  the  joyful  news, 

"Mary  and  Sultan  are  safe, — 
He  brought  her  away  from  this  burning  plain, 

Like  a  meteor  cleaving  the  air, — 
A  few  black  specks  on  her  long  white  dress, 

And  the  smell  of  the  smoke  in  her  hair." 

Three  cheers  were  sent  up  by  the  cow-boys, 

When  they  knew  what  the  Sultan  had  done ; 
A  cheer  for  the  girl,  a  cheer  for  the  steed, 

And  a  cheer  for  the  race  he  had  won. 
Then    the    bravest    of    all    the    brave    boys    said. 

"The  poor  little  prairie  flowrer, 
What  we  endured  for  a  half  a  day 

Would  have  done  her  to  death  in  an  hour." 

This  tale  is  yet  told  on  the  Brazos, 

And  this  eye-witnesses  say ; 
"An  Angel  in  white,  on  a  flying  steed, 
Went  South  through  the  smoke  that  day." 

— Albert  Greenwood. 
Newport 


AMERICA  FOR  WOMEN. 

America,   thou   land   of   the    free, 

What  good  thing  shall  we  tell  of  thee? 

Thou  "land  of  the  free  and  home  of  the  brave," 

O'er  whose  sunlit  fields  the  starry  flags  wave. 

What  sort  of  a  record  dost  thou  daily  make? 

Will  the  future  years  thy  praises  awake? 

Art  thou  blessing  or  cursing  mankind  every  day? 

O  "land  of  the  noble  free"  what  canst  thou  say? 

"Many  long  years  ago  across  the  broad  sea, 

Lived  a  man  named  Columbus,  a  brave  man  was  he  ; 

Strange  thoughts  filled  his  mind,  and  he  earnestly  tried 

To  find  a  new  way  'cross  the  waters  so  wide. 

"But  money  he  lacked,  and  many  an  hour 

He  hopefully  prayed  that  some  higher  power 

Might  open  a  way  that  his  plans  might  be  blest, 

And  he  be  able  to  sail  far  away  to  the  West. 

"At  last  'twas  a  woman  who  gave  him  the  aid ; 

Brave   Queen   Isabella   a   sacrifice   made, 

Her  jewels  so  bright  she  willingly  gave, 

That  a  trial  be  given  Columbus  the  brave. 

"After  months  of  privation  and  dangers  untold, 

I,  America,  was  found,  with  millions  in  gold ; 

And  a  woman,  remember,  furnished  the  way 

That  found  me  the  land  so  much  blest  today. 

"I  am  known  far  and  near  as  the  friend  of  the  poor, 

No  one  howe'er  humble  is  turned  from  my  door, 

There's  room  and  a  welcome  for  all  of  mankind, 

And  happiness,  joy  and  comfort  they  find. 

"In  no  other  land  has  woman  such  power, 

She's  honored  and  favored  each  day  and  hour, 

She  teaches  our  children,  and  office  she  holds, 

She's  working  for  God  and  salvation  of  souls. 

"In  the  broad  mission  fields  no  other  can  do 

One-half  of  the  good  that  woman  so  true 

Is  doing  for  heathen  now  groping  in  sin  ; 

She  goes  forth  a  martyr  sure  victory  to  win. 

"I,  America,  am  proud  that  my  women  are  true 

To  God,  and  to  me,  keeping  goodness  in  view, 

And  as  long  as  He  reigneth  and  ruleth  above, 

May  they  keep  'unity  of  spirit  in  bonds  of  love.'  ' 

—Anna  Sublctte  Jones. 
Alexandria. 


REST  FOR  THE  WEARY. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  evening  when  a  lad  of  prob- 
a-bly  sixteen  came  slowly  up  to  the  gate  near  a  fine 
Country  mansion.  His  clothes  were  ragged  and  ill- 
fitting  but  he  seemed  clean  in  other  ways.  His  shoes 
were  badly  worn.  An  old  straw  hat  covered  a  growth 
of  long  flaxen  hair. 

As  he  raised  the  latch  to  enter  he  caught  the  sound 
of  merry  voices  on  his  left.  Just  then  a  smiling  face 
peered  cautiously  through  the  leafy  screen  of  a  near 
by  grape  arbor,  and  a  pleasant  voice  called  the  boy's 
attention.  He  entered  and  silently  closed  the  gate 
behind  him  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  arbor. 
Soon  he  saw  an  opening  and  going  up  to  it  he  looked 
inside,  where  he  saw  two  girls  and  a  boy  all  a  few 
years  younger  than  himself.  The  eldest  girl  invited 
him  into  the  house.  She  started  and  he  followed,  and 
they  soon  came  to  the  entrance.  She  opened  the  door 
and  ushered  him  into  a  cozy  room,  where  a  beautiful 
lady  was  sitting  near  a  window  sewing.  She  looked 
up  as  they  entered.  The  interruption  was  soon  ex 
plained,  and  that  the  lad  seemed  tired  and  hungry. 
The  woman  led  the  way  to  an  adjoining  room  where 
an  appetizing  supper  was  coon  served.  After  satis 
fying  his  hunger  he  was  asked  to  enter  another  room 
where  a  bed  was  prepared  for  him.  He  was  told  that 
it  was  at  his  disposal  and  the  lady  withdrew.  He 
quickly  undressed  and  laid  down,  and  was  soon  in  the 
land  of  pleasant  dreams. 

— Gus  Van   Osdoll. 
Holton. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OP  RED  MOUNTAIN. 

A  few  miles  to  tne  north  of  Birmingham,  Alabama,  rises  a  great 
cone  of  earth  which  is  known  in  that  vicinity  as  Red  Mountain. 
High  above  the  crests  of  the  surrounding  mountain  peaks  the 
pointed  summit  of  this  great  cone  of  red  earth  rears  its  head. 
Upon  the  southern  face  of  the  mountain,  near  the  top  of  it,  is  the 
entrance  to  an  underground  cavern. 

Shortly  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  a  small  band  of  guerillas 
under  the  leadership  of  an  outlaw  of  the  name  of  Podingtoir, — 
Lucifer  Podington— frequented  the  mountains  of  south-west  Ala 
bama.  The  frequent  depredations  of  this  lawless  band  were  such 
as  to  keep  the  law-abiding  citizens  of  that  section  in  a  state  of 
constant  fear.  The  governor  of  the  state  had  set  a  price  upon  the 
head  of  Captain  Podington;  and.  although  Podington  was  well 
known  by  many  of  the  citizens  of  Birmingham,  and  was  frequently 
seen  in  that  locality,  his  capture  was  never  accomplished  by  mortal 
man. 

One  hot  summer  night, — it  was  in  the  month  of  June  of  the  year 
1872 — Podington  and  his  lawless  crew,  who  happened  to  be  skulk 
ing  in  the  vicinity  of  Birmingham,  took  refuge  in  the  cavern  be 
neath  Red  Mountain.  That  night  a  thunder  storm  broke  in  all  its 
fury  about  the  crest  of  Red  Mountain.  The  rain  came  down  in 
sheets  and  torrents  which  loosened  the  red  earth  which  held  in  place 
a  great  boulder  which  hung  above  the  spacious  doorway  of  the 
natural  cavern.  The  huge  boulder,  loosened  by  the  rain  together 
with  tons  of  earth,  slid  from  its  place,  completely  filled  the  cavern's 
mouth  and  entombed,  alive,  the  lawless  band  who  slumbered  within! 

Some  years  after  this  occurrence  had  taken  place,  a  party  of 
hunters  who  were  digging  for  a  marmot  discovered  and  reopened 
the  entrance  of  this  cavern.  Within  this  spacious  sepulchre  was 
found  the  bones  of  seven  horses  and  the  skeletons  of  seven  men. 

In  one  corner  of  this  tomb,  apart  from  his  comrades,  was  found  a 
human  skeleton  sitting  upon  the  damp  floor  of  the  cave  with  its 
back  resting  against  the  wall  of  the  cavern.     Beside  the  grinning 
skeleton  lay  a  brace  of  rusted  pistols  and  a  small  tin  case,  withm 
which  was  a  leather-bound  diary.    Upon  the  last  musty  page  of  this 
diary  was  written,  in  a  firm,  bold  hand,  these  words: 
"Gone  to   join   the   Last   Muster," 
June  7th,  1872. 

Lucifer  Podington, 
Cap't.  Army  C.  S.  A." 

— Edgar  Lee  Maines. 
Zionsville. 


"IT    IS    FINISHED." 

It  is  finished."  cried  th.e  Savior,  as  He  groaned  at  Calvary; 
As  He  gave  His  precious  life-blood,  that  through  faith  we  might  be 

free ; 

As  He  suffered  here  below ;  as  He  paid  the  debt  we  owe, 
In  His  precious  life-blood's  flow— paid  it  all  for  you  and  me. 

It  is  finished!   It  is  finished!  Jesus  has  prepared  the  way. 
He  has  built  the  sure  foundation  that  eternally  shall  stay. 
Why  dispute  the  words  He  said?    Why  reject  the  blood  He  shed, 
That  can  quicken  from  the  dead  wandering  souls1  in  sin,  astray? 

It  is  finished — what  is  finished?     Ah!  salvation's  way  is  done. 
It  was  finished  in  the  life-blood  of  the  Father's  righteous  Son. 
That  which  justice  has  denied  Jesus  has  for  thee  supplied. 
If  thou  only  wilt  abide  in  His  grace,  oh  wandering  one. 

It  is  finished!  It  is  finished!  And  the  plan  is  now  complete. 
Come  and  lay  thy  heavy  burden  down  at  Jesus'  bleeding  feet 
Come  and  trust  thy  risen  Lord;  lean  upon  His  mighty  word; 
Find  within  His  blood  interred  holy  peace,  supreme  and  sweet. 

Christ  has  made  the  great  atonement;  He  the  law  has  satisfied; 
And  He  bids  us  not  in  justice,  but  in  grace  divine  abide. 
Erring  soul  long  gone  astray,  hear  His  voice  so  earnest  say 
'•'Why  reject!     Why  turn  away  from  the  Friend  who  for  thee  died? 

Ah!  thy  load  is  black  and  heavy,  and  thy  soul  is  fallen  low, 
And  the  way  seems  dark  and  gloomy,  and  thy  guilt  is  great  I  know: 
But  doest  thou  in  sin  forget  Jesus  loves  thee  even  yet! 
Ah,  He  paid  the  awful  debt  when  He  suffered  long  ago. 

He  has  paid  the  awful  ransom,  and  He  calls  to  thee  to-day. 

Gentle,  loving  are  the  accents,  oh!  why  wilt  thou  disobey? 

He  thy  soul  will  now  retrieve  if  thou  only  wilt  believe. 

Come — the  gift  of  life  receive;  Claim  His  promise  while  you  may 

It  is  finished!  It  is  finished!     Over  land  and  over  sea, 

Herald  forth  the  joyous  message:  Christ  has  died  to  make  you  free! 

On  the  cross  He  long  ago  paid  the  awful  debt  you  owe 

In  His  precious  life-blood's  flow — paid  it  all  to  ransom  thee! 

It  is  finished!  It  is  finished!  Jesus,  at  thy  bleeding  feet, 

Helpless,  dead  and  lost  I  fling  me  now  to  claim  Thy  promise  sweet, 

Oh,  my  soul  is  all  a  blight — sin  has  made  it  black  as  night, 

But  I  come  to  Thee  for  light — Thou  canst  save  and  make  complete. 

It  is  finished!   It  is  finished!  Jesus.  Thou  and  Thou  alone. 
Canst  for  all  my  black  transgressions  and  my  sinful  deeds  atone. 
I've  no  recompense  to  bring,  at  Thy  feet,  oh,  Christ,  to  fling. 
Simply  to  Thy   word   I   cling;    It  can   ne'er  be   overthrown. 

— Gertrude  Phoebe  Doerr. 
Brownstown. 


FLASHES    OF   WISDOM. 

Our  yesterdays  are  but  our  tomorrows  with  whiskers  on. 

*  v  *  * 

There  are  more  fine  intellects  buried  in  laziness  than  are  buried 
in  poverty. 

*  *  *  * 

Mistakes  are  like  crooked  corn  rows;  you  can't  see  them  until 
they  are  made. 

*  *  *  * 

A  man  must  first  make  a  success  of  himself,  before  he  can  make 
a  success  of  life. 

*  *  *  * 

Some  men  are  not  a  success  anywhere,  except  at.  the  little  end 
of  a  cigar  or  pipe  stem. 

*  *  *  * 

I  have  seen  people  so  stingy  that  they  seldom  took  a  full  breath 
lor  fear  their  lungs  would  wear  out. 

*  *  *  * 

In  some  respects  people  are  like  bricks;  they  are  made  of  clay. 
The  difference  seems  to  be,  principally,  in  the  quality  of  the  clay. 

*  *  *  * 

This  is  a  very  wicked  world  we  live  in,  though  very  few  people 
care  to  leave  it  even  when  called  upon  to  go,  because  they  are  not 
quite  sure  of  their  destination. 

*  *  *  * 

There  is  only  one  valid  contract,  made  on  full  consideration, 
that  you  are  not  bound  to  live  up  to,  and  that  is  the  marriage  con 
tract.  The  courts  will  not  only  refuse  to  make  you  live  up  to  it, 
but  they  will  help  you  break  it. 

*  *  *  * 

Fools,  like  orators,  are  born,  not  made.  For  this  the  orator  is  not 
to  blame,  neither  is  the  fool.  About  the  only  difference  between 
them  is,  you  can  make  a  fool  out  of  an  orator,  but  you  can't  make 
an  orator  out  of  a  fool.  Every  man  is  a  fool  some  time  in  his  life. 
A  wise  man  may  profit  by  experience,  but  a  fool  never  does. 

*  *  *  * 

Do  not  do  things  on  weekday  that  you  would  be  ashamed  to  do 
on  Sunday — manual  labor  excepted.  If  you  do  not  live  a  Christian 
on  Weekday,  your  Sundays  will  be  too  short  in  which  to  get  for 
giveness  for  your  meanness. 

*  *  *  * 

When  you  are  dead  those  who  were  your  nearest  friends  will 
tell  your  good  deeds;  those  whom  you  robbed  will  think  of  your 
bad  deeds;  God  will  judge  you  by  all  your  deeds.  You  will  be  a 
good  deal  longer  dead  than  you  were  alive. 

*  *  *  * 

Quit  your  shamming  now.     Tomorrow  will  be  too  late. 

John  Baker. 
Angola. 


JIM    CLEVERS. 
He  Looks  Ahead  and  Makes  Preparations  for  the  Future. 

Mister  Editor — It  are  a  long  time  till  the  presidenshel  campane 
yet.  but  I  have  been  swingin  round  the  sircle  and  consultin  with 
some  ov  the  leading  dimicrats  in  the  country.  They  believe  in  takin 
time  by  the  forelock,  or  some  other  kind  ov  lock,  and  beginning 
the  work  of  preparation,  with  some  previousness. 

The  main  troubles  to  be  overcome  are  that  ther's  so  many  kinds 
ov  dimocratic  principles  an  they  all  hav  to  be  compermised.  Thers 
the  hard  money  Dimocrat  what  wears  a  standin  collar  an  a  ramrod 
backbone,  an  the  free  silver  Dimacrat  what  has  hayseed  in  his  hair 
an  spectacles  in  the  bosom  of  his  britches.  Then  thers  the  ante 
expanshun  and  imperalism  dimacrats,  an  a  whole  lot  of  other  kinds. 
I  wish  there  were  only  one  kind  of  dimacrats  jest  fer  handiness. 

1  found  out  that  the  main  trouble  in  the  future  would  be  to  get 
up  a  nashel  platform  that  would  suit  all  parties,  an  I  hav'  undertook 
to  serround  the  difficulty.  I  am  going  to  get  it  up  cm  an  entirely 
new  plan.  The  ida  was  suggested  to  me  by  a  tin  sign  I  seen  In 
Frank  Brown's  grosery.  It  were  one  of  these  signs  what  read 
different  when  you  look  at  them  from  different  sides.  It  were  a 
soap  sign,  and  when  you  are  in  front,  it  reads:  "Ivory  Soap,"  When 
you  are  on  the  other  side  it  reads:  "It  floats,"  and  when  you  are 
on  the  other  side  it  reads:  "Fits  the  Hand." 

Now  that  are  the  way  I  am  going  to  get  up  the  next  Nashnel 
Dimacrat  platform.  I  am  workin  on  it  now,  and  when  it  are 
finished,  ef  you  look  at  it  from  New  York  an  the  effete  east  it  will 
read:  "Gold  Standard-Sound  Currensy;"  ef  you  look  at  it  from 
Nebraska  an  the  boundless  west  it  will  read.  "Free-Silver — 16  to  1" 
an  ef  you  look  at  it  from  Indyana  an  the  middle  west  it  will  read, 
"No  expansun— Free  Trade." 

It  are  a  great  work,  but  I  will  pull  through  ef  I  don't  go  crazy 
and  the  ink  bottle  holds  out.      The  ida  are  not  entirely  new.  fer 
it  are  the  plan  that  Bryan  made  his  speeches  on  last  campane,  an 
the  boys  sa  that  I  am  as  smart  as  Bryen. 
Shoalr  Cyrus  M.  Hane. 


A  SCULPTOR. 

He  stood  in  his  Atelier 

And  modeled  in  clay, 
The  dreams  of  his  soul 

Were  soon  to  see  day. 

Each  stroke  of  the  hammer 

To   life   it   awoke, 
And   he   chiseled   away 
Until   it   quite   spoke. 

At  last  he  stepped  back 

His  work  to  admire, 
Her  contour  was  perfect, 

All  soul   could   desire. 

SOLILOQUY. 

You're  sacred  to  me 
You're  rll  that  is  pure, 
You  take  me  to  realm 
Earth   cannot   allure. 

Sold  to  a  Croesus 

Because    of   his    pelf, 
Can    I    sell    my    soul? 

You,  best  of  myself. 

No,  "Art  Collector" — 

I   desecrate  art ! 
The  soul  of  my  soul 

And  heart  of  my  heart ! 

All  in  creation 

Could    not   fill   the   void 
You  my  fair  statue 

Would   take   from   poor   Lloyd. 

Have  said  I  have  loved. 

Ah  !  never   before, 
'Tis   mv  affinity, 

(What  can  I  wish  more?) 

— MEB   Culbertson, 
Richmond. 


SLEEP    ON. 

Sleep  on,  my  darling  boy,  sleep  on, 

And  let  the  smile  that  blossoms  on  thy  lips 

Bespeak  the  breaking  of  the  dawn 

In  dreamland's  happy  realms,  where  sunwashed 
ships 

In  placid  harbors  ever   lie  at  ease, 

Laden  with  souls  from  o'er  earth's  stormy  seas, 

Sleep  on ;  I  would  not  have  thee  wake 
To  meet  the  years  that  hold  so  much  of  wrong; 

Far  better  now  that  thou  shouldst  take 
Thy   one   short  year,   matchless  with   mother- 
song, 

And  make  it  part  of  thine  eternal  dream, 

Lender  the  skies  of  paradise  agleam. 

Sleep  on.    What  though  thine  eyes  shall  miss 
Fair  summer  dawns  and  sun-enraptured  days? 

What  though  thy  lips  know  not  the  kiss 

Of  one  pure  woman  whom  love's  scepter  sways? 

Thou,   too,   shalt  miss  the  blinding  storms  that 
break 

Across  the  winter  world  in  summer's  wake. 

Thy  heart  the  pulse  of  pain  shall  miss, 

That  follows  close  a  fair  false  woman's  crime. 

The  hovel  and  the  harlot's  kiss 

Can  claim  thee  not.     Beyond  the  touch  of  time, 

Calm  and  secure  thy  sinless  spirit  lies 

Safe  in  the  harbor  of  the  happy  skies. 

Sleep  on  ;  and  blessed  is  the  thought 
That  thou  shalt  wake  no  more  amid  the  pain 

Of  stifling  days  and  nights  with  terror  fraught. 
Under  the   drifting   snow   and   summer  rain, 

We  leave  thy  little  form  of  faded  clay  ; 

Thy  soul  in  some  far  haven  sings  to  day. 

— Edmund  Jay  Wilson. 
Dublin. 


HOW    THE    TIME    ROLLED    BY. 

When  Marigold  Ainsworth  was  seventeen  years  old  her  father 
died,  leaving  her  an  heiress.  Her  mother  died  during-  her  infancy, 
and  a  step-mother  came  to  govern  the  home  just  two  years  prior 
to  the  Judge's  death. 

Marigold  was  beautiful,  perfectly  formed,  haughty  and  high  spir 
ited.  She  and  her  step-mother  did  not  live  harmoniously  and  one 
afternoon  a  long  conference  was  held  with  Professor  Harry  Haw 
thorne,  of  the  Village  Academy  with  a  result  that  Miss  Marigold 
was  packed  off  to  his  keeping.  Hawthorne  had  long  loved  the 
charming  girl,  but  his  love  had  been  well  hidden  from  everyone. 

Marigold  accidentally  overheard  the  conference  between  her  mother 
and  the  Professor,  and  determined  to  disprove  the  ugly  charges  of 
wildness,  and  show  the  world  what  metal  she  was  made  of— and  she 
did.  Her  studies  were  well  learned,  her  deportment  such  as  to 
cause  wonderment  from  the  other  students,  the  Professor  and  her 
step-mother.  The  examination  was  passed  with  high  merit  and  the 
term  ended. 

The  evening  of  the  final  day  Marigold  visited  the  empty  school 
room  for  her  books.  The  bareness  and  cheerlessness  of  the  familiar 
and  beloved  room  was  impressive.  She  glanced  at  the  big  chair 
occupied  by  the  Professor  and  went  to  it.  She  saw  his  manly, 
loving  face;  his  kind  words  were  in  her  ear  and  throwing  herself 
upon  the  empty  chair  sobbed  aloud,  "My  Master"  and  knew  then 
she  loved  him.  A  quick  step,  a  frantic  "My  Angel"  and  the  Pro 
fessor  held  her  in  both  arms  as  he  poured  forth  his  love  in  the  happy 
girl's  burning  ears.  He  told  her  how  long  he  had  loved  her  and 
how  hard  he  would  work  for  her  happiness.  But  he  must  go  away 
and  earn  that  which  would  keep  her  forever  in  surroundings  equal 
to  her  home  life.  She  could  not  speak— her  love  was  so  great.  He 
grasped  both  her  white  hands  and  told  her  he  would  not  kiss  her 
lips,  he  never  wranted  her  to  allow  that,  until  she  could  give  her 
hand  and  heart  with  the  kiss.  He  then  left  her. 

Twenty  years  rolled  away  and  Marigold  still  beautiful  and  even 
more  graciously  queenly,  occupied  the  old  homestead.  Her  step 
mother  had  married  a  rich  man,  loaving  the  old  place  in  sole  charge 
of  Marigold.  Time  had  not  changed  the  proud  and  beautiful  woman, 
excepting  one  or  two  grey  hairs  just  above  the  temple,  adding  to 
her  regal  beauty.  She  often  thought  of  her  school-master  and 
often  softly  said  "How  the  time  rolls  by"  but  she  did  not  grow  old 
with  the  passing  years,  and  remained  Marigold  Ainsworth.  Many 
offers  of  marriage  she  had,  and  from  those  in  wealth  and  high 
rank.  Her  heart  was  with  Harry  Hawthorne  and  always  would  be. 
Her  friends,  associates  and  neighbors  finally  decided  she  was  either 
stony-hearted  or  had  given  her  heart  to  an  unknown  one  far,  far 
away.  And  they  guessed  right. 

On  the  day  of  her  thirty-fifth  birth,  she  was  more  cheery  and  happy 
than  in  many  former  ones.  She  mused  and  thought  of  her  absent 
one  all  day.  At  eventime  the  maid  brought  up  a.  card— "Harry 
Hawthorne"— and  her  soul  was  filled  with  love.  Their  meeting  was 
a  joyous  one.  He  was  just  fifty  years  old  that  day  and  told  her 
he  had  returned  a  rich  man  to  claim  the  only  love  of  his  heart. 
He  battled  against  the  thought  that  she  had  married  or  even  died, 
and  now  that  he  found  her  the  same  beautiful,  gracious,  queenly 
Marigold,  he  wanted  her  forever.  She  simply  raised  her  ruby  lips  and 
pressed  them  lovingly  to  his,  saying:  "You  told  me  to  give 
my  kiss  to  the  man  I  loved  and  would  marry— and  there  it  is." 

In  the  large  brown  mansion  on  the  picturesque  hill  just  beyond 
the  quiet  village,  rests  within  its  portals  one  of  the  happiest  families 
known  in  that  section,  Beautiful  Marigold  with  her  bright  daughter 
and  lively  boy  make  a  lovely  setting  around  the  brightly  burning 
log  fire  as  the  Honorable  Henry  Hawthorne,  glancing  over  his  paper, 
views  the  scene.  His  wife  glances  up  to  catch  his  fond  eye,  and 
quietly  slipping  over  to  his  side,  winds  both  arms  around  his  neck 
and  softly  murmurs:  "Kiss  me  Harry— we  will  always  be  happy." 
And  so  they  are.  The  rolling  of  Father  Time  makes  more  certain 
the  determined  vow  registered  years  ago  by  the  loving  mother  and 
wife— to  show  the  world  what  kind  of  metal  she  was  made  of.  Her 
destiny  was  made  when  she  overheard  her  stepmother's  charges 
against  her.  Happily  so. 

—Alma  Esther  King. 
Petersburg. 


HOOSIER    SCHOOL    DAYS. 

On  the  country  school  house! 
That  stood  on  yonder  hill; 

Is  still  a  source  of  pleasure 
For  the  memories  it  has  filled. 

There  midst  youths  enchantment 
We  look  bacR  and  with  pride 

Remember  long  ago  the  days, 
When  we  stood  on  the  old  hill  side. 

We  were  but  lads  and  lasses. 
What  jolly  times  we  found 

Wandering  mid  the  oak  trees 
And  playing  on  the  ground. 

There  the  railroad  crossed  the  corner, 
And  the  brook  right  down  below 

Was  another  shady  spot 
Where  the  boys  had  learned  to  row. 

And  then  the  spellin'  school 
In  the  fall  when  the  nights  were  cold 

We'd  hitch  up  Deck  and  Blister 
And  then  we'd  get  a  scold; 

Ma  afeEfrin'  us  wild  children 
Would  have  a  run-a-way, 

But  we'd  pay  no  attention 
For  we  knew  it  was  her  way. 

And  I  recollect  Aunt  Dosey 
Who  came  to  school  one  day, 

Agrumblin'   cause  her  Johnnie 
Got  hurt  when  in  a  play. 

Our  teacher  he  was  frightened 
'Cause  he  was  but  a  mite, 

And  when  Aunt  Dosey  shook  her  fist, 
He  said  that  she  was  right. 

All  those  rustic  scenes 
Can  never  be  forgot: 

The  house,  the  hill,  the  valley 
And  the  little  shady  spot. 

Altho  the  brook  has  dried  away 
And  the  oak  grove  disappeared 

There  are  still  some  silent  pathways 
That  bring  back  by  gone  years. 

Oh  the  country  school  house! 
That  stood  on  yonder  hill; 

Is  still  a  source  of  pleasure 
For  the  memories  it  has  filled. 

There  midst  youths  enchantment 
We  look  back  and  with  pride 

Remember  long  ago  the  days 
When  we  stood  there  side  by  side. 

—Howard  Dean   Chapel. 


Knox. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas  is  a  prophetic  day,  the  fullness  of  which  we  cannot 
comprehend,  neither  could  the  wise  men  of  the  East  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  "Christ,"  whose  birth  was  the  first  Christmas;  they 
came  to  worship  an  earthly  king, while  all  the  time  they  were  doing 
homage  to  the  Great  Messiah,  the  king  of  the  world. 

No  word  in  the  language  has  so  many  shades  of  meaning  to  differ 
ent  persons  as  Christmas.  No  anniversary  of  the  calendar  means  so 
little  to  one  or  so  much  to  another. 

Here  and  there  we  meet  people  who  fully  comprehend  the  import 
ance  of  Christmas  and  we  find  them  enjoying  the  truest  happiness 
from  its  observance.  To  the  common  mind  all  too  often  it's  a  day  of 
selfish  pleasure.  To  the  Christian  the  birth  of  Christ  means  the 
birth  of  worship. 

True  worship  is  universal,  it  not  only  is  the  comprehension  of  the 
life  and  teachings  of  Christ,  giving  to  Him  the  love  due  Him,  but 
also  there  is  due  from  each  one  a  love  for  one  another.  For  it  is 
the  manifestation  of  brotherly  love  that  makes  Christmas  the 
happiest  day  of  the  year. 

In  olden  times  it  was  kept  by  fasting  and  prayer.  But  as  the  cur 
rent  of  time  passes  away  so  do  manners  and  customs  of  the  people 
change,  and  today  Christmas  is  kept  by  feasting  and  giving  pres 
ents.  This  is  the  custom  of  the  people  in  general,  yet  each  indi 
vidual  celebrates  it  differently.  Sometimes  it  is  celebrated  by  the 
chimes  of  the  marriage  bell;  sometimes  by  a  visit  of  the  Angel  of 
Death.  Some  enjoy  the  day  by  dancing  and  drinking  wines,  while 
others  go  among  the  poor  lending  aid  and  speaking  sympathizing 
words,  or  even  giving  a  friendly  smile,  by  which  often-times  a  way 
ward  or  fallen  piece  of  humanity  is  raised  and  pointed  to  a  better 
life. 

And  what  could  be  a  greater  deed,  at  this  glad  season  of  the 
year  than  to  be  the  good  Angel  who  could  bring  hope  into  some 
one's  life;  then  we  could  join  our  voices  in  sweetest  harmony — ''Love 
One  Another."  Asking  also  that  God  may  bless  "Every  One."  This 
is  Christmas  in  all  its  nobleness  and  sincerity. 

Then  why  could  not  every  one  celebrate  Christmas  correctly  and 
enjoy  it  perfectly?  We  are  feasting  upon  all  the  products  of  the 
ages  past,  and  enjoy  the  best  opportunities  yet  known  in  the  world's 
history  of  advancement,  we  rest  under  the  protecting  wing  of  the 
greatest  and  most  advanced  nation  of  the  world. 

Christmas  is  also  a  day  of  Thanksgiving;  the  thanks,  however, 
should  not  be  wrought  in  the  market  places  and  street  corners  that 
they  may  be  heard  of  by  men,  but  should  be  answered  in  the  asking. 

So  let  each  Christmas  be  brighter  and  brighter  because  we  sway 
the  reigns  of  empire  in  command  for  the  good  of  human  kind  as 
some  men  scheme  its  evil:  Then  will  blessings  bright  crown  for 
all  happy  Christmas  greetings. 

— Lottie  Garner  South. 
Brownsburg. 


GOOD  BYE. 


How  strangely  sweet  the  melody 
That  sounds  in  some  wild  minor  key 
Across  the  lute  strings  of  the  heart, 
When  e'er  with  loved  ones  we  must  part; 

With   overflowing  eyes   we  try 

To  say  those  words,  "Good  bye,  good  bye." 

Or  when  at  night  some  fancy  old, 

Some  story  of  a  love  untold 

Comes  flitting  through  the  memory, 

Then   passes   for  eternity, 

And  the  night  winds  in  the  poplars  sigh 
Those  tender  words,  "Good  bye,  good  bye." 

— Homer   Elbert   Cotton 


Bloomington. 


Return  to  desk  from  which  Borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399S16)476 


YC  14314 


M147337 

9/7 


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